


Revelations

by The_Arkadian



Series: The Apostate Chronicles [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Revelations" follows on from "Unschooled Hands" and takes place after the main story of "Consequences" but before the end of Act 3 in DA2. It covers the events of "DA: Legacy" and the revelations of Anders' Calling.</p><p>Warning for DA: Legacy spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anders frowned at the page in front of him. Scanning through the words, he couldn't find a single phrase that seemed familiar. It was his hand-writing, though the letters were formed perhaps a bit more forcefully than he preferred to use, but he didn't remember writing it.

“Justice?” he asked quietly, but the spirit was silent. He wondered when the spirit had decided to take over the manifesto-writing like this. He'd come across a few pages lately that had appeared slipped in between those detailing his own arguments, and he wondered if perhaps Justice had been taking advantage of his exhaustion after far too many late nights to express his opinions a little more... _directly_. Anders felt a disquietening uneasiness as he stared at the words written in his own hand that he knew had never come from his own mind.

He stared over at the candle; there was a good two hours' worth of wax burned out that he didn't remember. He blinked. That was one hell of a memory gap. It must be well after midnight by now; he somehow doubted Hawke would still be awake. Sighing, he pushed himself away from the desk, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he stood and made his way out of Hawke's study towards the main hall, pulling Hawke's house-robe tighter around his slender frame. He couldn't make head nor tail of the parts he knew were his own work right now; time to puzzle over Justice's additions on the morrow after a good night's sleep.

Well, what remained of the night, anyhow.

He'd taken perhaps a handful of steps towards the main staircase when there came a knock at the door. He paused and stared towards the entrance. Who on earth would be calling at this time of night? Maybe Isabela after a few too many, though Hightown was rather out of the way for her to meander all the way up from the Hanged Man.

Maybe Fenris was having a restless night. Anders smiled at the thought; Hawke might grumble at such a late interruption, but perhaps....

That was when the double doors leading to the foyer were suddenly blown inwards off their hinges.

Anders flinched back, ducking flying splinters, his eyes widening in alarm as five dwarven warriors burst in. They stared around themselves, readying weapons, and one pointed a rather unpleasant-looking sword directly at Anders.

“Are you the Hawke?” he demanded, as the other dwarves stared at the unarmed mage and then started to inch forward to flank him.

“Who wants to know?” asked Anders, wishing frantically he hadn't left his staff upstairs in Hawke's room. He glowered at the dwarves, feeling rather less than intimidating in Hawke's borrowed house-robe and bare feet.

“Take him!” ordered the dwarf, waving the others forward. “We don't need him alive, just his blood!”

“I'd rather my blood stayed right where it is, if it's all the same to you!” exclaimed Anders, backing up as the dwarves advanced towards him. He pooled mana in his hands; he could still cast spells without his staff, but targeting and fine control would be far harder. Still, better a poorly-directed lightning bolt than a skewered mage, he thought, as he unleashed the crackling energies directly at his would-be assailants and caught three of them with an ice blast that froze them where they stood. As he followed that up with a lightning bolt, he desperately hoped Hawke would hear the commotion and come investigate soon. Preferably with something big, sharp and pointy.

He leapt backwards as a dwarven sword swept past his abdomen at just the right height for disembowelling. He unleashed a fireball directly at the dwarf's face, blasting him backwards as Anders retreated further back towards the stairs.

“This would be a really good time for reinforcements!” he yelled as he stared about wildly; two of the frozen dwarves were already breaking free of the ice and didn't look too happy about things. The leader was waving his sword around in a decidedly intimidating manner. He desperately wished he'd kept his staff to hand; with it, he could have cast a glyph of holding instead of being reduced to point-blank fire and lightning which was causing a lot of incidental damage to Hawke's furnishings. He hoped that vase hadn't been too expensive.

As he turned to blast a dwarf trying to flank him on the left, he felt something slice into his ribs on his right and cried out, staggering back as he clutched his side. He could feel blood soaking through the house-robe almost immediately as the pain hit, like fire across his flank. “Hawke!” he screamed, recoiling back. “I need you!”

“You called?” answered Hawke as he leapt over the mezzanine railing to land directly behind the lead dwarf, twirling his sword overhead before neatly bisecting him from shoulder to hip. The other dwarves instantly switched their focus to this new threat; Anders gestured towards the nearest two and managed to encase them in ice before sitting down rather suddenly upon the bottom-most stairs.

Hawke made short work of the dwarves and shortly he was surrounded by corpses. He eyed them all carefully before taking in the scorch damage from Anders' undirected spells. “It's going to be a bugger to get that blood out of the carpet,” he mused. “Oh, you got that old vase. Excellent; I always hated that thing,” he added as he turned back towards the mage with a grin – which died as he took in the sight of Anders slumped against the stairs, clutching his side, the house-robe stained dark with blood. The mage was white-faced as he pressed his hands to the bloody slash in his side; as Hawke leapt to his side, the soft blue glow of healing magic surrounded his hands as the mage worked to draw cut flesh and severed veins back together and slow the bleeding.

“What happened?” asked Hawke quietly as he crouched down next to the mage.

“No idea,” replied Anders tersely, concentrating on pulling the wound closed as he poured healing magic into himself. “They blew the doors off their hinges somehow and came in demanding blood. And they weren't being metaphorical about it either.” The glow around his hands faded, and he sagged back against the stairs with a low groan.

“Love?” asked Hawke, concerned, laying a hand on the mage's shoulder. Anders shook his head.

“I'll be fine,” he muttered. “Just tired. Flinging fireballs around without a staff and then healing... just takes it out of me a bit.”

“Hello? Hawke?” called a voice, as Aveline cautiously stepped over what remained of the door and into the hall. She stared around at the mess as three other guardsmen followed her. “Maker's breath, what happened here?” she exclaimed.

“We're not exactly sure,” replied Hawke, straightening up. “These dwarves broke in and attacked Anders.”

“Is he alright?” asked Aveline as the guardsmen spread out and began rolling over bodies and studying the scorch marks.

“Aveline, I didn't know you cared,” smiled Anders wanly.

“Captain, these dwarves are all Carta,” called one of the guardsmen.

“Carta? What have you been up to, Anders?” frowned Aveline.

“Me?” exclaimed Anders, sitting up with some assistance from Hawke. “I haven't done anything! It was Hawke they were after!”

“Hawke?” said Aveline, frowning. “I wasn't aware you'd been stepping on Carta toes lately?”

“Not recently, that I recall,” replied Hawke.

“I'll go talk to Varric,” decided Aveline. “Maybe he might have some idea of what's going on. In the meantime, I'll have a unit of my guards patrol round your estate. I don't want any further incidents on my watch. And I'll send someone to clear away the bodies.”

“I appreciate it, Aveline,” nodded Hawke. He helped Anders get up to his feet as Aveline directed her men; Hawke noted that his manservant Bodahn had appeared at some point and had a large meat-cleaver tucked into the belt of his dressing gown, and was now assisting the guardsmen. He must remember to have a word with the dwarf later about not taking needless risks, particularly when Anders was chucking fireballs around.

“Come on, let's get you upstairs,” suggested Hawke; Anders nodded.

“Fenris will be sorry he missed a fight,” he mused as they headed upstairs. Hawke snorted.

“He'll be apoplectic to find you got hurt,” he replied.

“Fenris doesn't do apoplectic,” replied Anders. “He might growl a bit though.”

Hawke laughed as they made their way up to the bedroom. “He does tend to take you getting hurt rather personally,” replied the warrior.

“You'd almost think I got hurt deliberately just to wind him up,” Anders agreed.

“You mean you don't?” teased Hawke. Anders rolled his eyes at him, then stripped off the robe and climbed into the bed. Hawke leaned over him and gently traced his fingertips over the long, angry red line that slashed across Anders' side just beneath his ribs. “That was nasty, love,” he added.

“I know,” replied Anders tersely. “I was the one on the receiving end, remember?”

Hawke leaned forward and kissed Anders tenderly. “I couldn't bear to lose you,” he said softly.

“I couldn't bear to lose me either,” Anders quipped sleepily as he snuggled down into the soft bed.

Hawke watched fondly as Anders drifted off to sleep. He sat and watched the sleeping apostate in silence; when finally he stretched out beside Anders, sleep was a long time in coming.

What did the Carta want?


	2. Chapter 2

“Garrett? _Garrett!_ ”

Hawke muttered to himself and buried his head under the bedcovers. Beside him, Anders was sprawled asleep, one leg dangling over the side of the bed, the covers askew and one arm flung up across his eyes. He was faintly snoring.

“Garrett, damn it!”

Hawke sat up in resignation. Carver wasn't going to go away, it seemed, and if Hawke didn't do something about it then his little brother would wake Anders. He pulled himself out of bed and reached for his house-robe, pulling it on and belting it as he made his way around the bed. He bent over to gently kiss Anders' nose; the mage murmured something in his sleep and faintly smiled. Hawke grinned fondly down at the sleeping man then made his way quietly from the bedroom.

“Garrett, where are-”

“Shout a little louder won't you, Carver?” remarked Hawke as he walked down the stairs. “I'm sure they didn't quite hear you down in Darktown.”

Carver folded his arms across his chest, the chainmail Warden armour clanking slightly. “Then why didn't you answer?” he replied testily. Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“Last I checked, I wasn't at your beck and call, Carver,” he replied. “I see your Warden training hasn't improved your manners any.”

Carver gestured at the hall, where bloodstains and scorch marks were much in evidence. “I gather you had unexpected guests last night.”

“Actually I invited Anders to redecorate – the 'random midnight slaughter' look is very 'in' this season,” replied Hawke drily. “What do you want, Carver?”

Carver straightened and frowned. “Carta dwarves attacked me at the training yard yesterday.”

“Maybe we should thank the Carta for livening up your training routine then,” remarked Hawke. “Must make a change from darkspawn.” Carver snorted.

“Hardly. Though it looks like you fared less well against them than I did.” He gestured at Hawke's robe; Hawke lifted his right arm and looked down at the slash in the fabric and the dried black stains of blood. “Oh? Hmm, no, that's not my blood,” he replied. “They got Anders. Nothing he couldn't heal, thankfully, but I think I owe the Carta a less than friendly visit in return.”

Carver tried to look appropriately serious, but Hawke didn't miss the sudden triumphant gleam in his eye as Hawke mentioned Anders' injury that was replaced by a flicker of disappointment at the news Anders was not badly hurt. “The mage was here?”

“He's asleep upstairs; I'll be sure to give him your love shall I?”

Carver snorted in derision. “Don't put yourself out on my account,” he muttered.

Both men turned at the sound of bare feet pounding up the stone steps outside and into the foyer; Fenris came to a halt just inside the ruined remains of the doorway. “Where is he?” he demanded, ignoring Carver as he addressed Hawke. Hawke merely jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the stairs. Fenris brushed past the Grey Warden without a word as he headed up the stairs.

“Does the elf usually....”

“Frequently,” replied Hawke. “You get used to it after a while.”

Carver shook his head. “Aren't you worried about leaving your pet mage vulnerable to the mage-hating elf?”

Hawke threw his head back and roared with laughter. Carver frowned, sensing he was the butt of some joke. “What?” he exclaimed, but Hawke only laughed louder.

Upstairs, Fenris made unerringly for Hawke's room, not breaking his stride until he stood beside the large four poster bed, staring down at the sleeping man. He stared intently down at Anders' peaceful face, trying to decide if he looked paler than usual. Anders was sprawled upon his back in unconscious abandon, blond hair scattered across the pillows, one leg dangling over the side of the bed, one hand resting atop his chest whilst the fingers of his other hand curled next to his head upon the pillow. He was snoring very faintly, pink lips slightly parted.

Fenris gently lifted the edge of the coverlet, folding it back far enough to see the barely-healed angry red line of the sword slash below the slender man's ribs. Pursing his lips, he stared down at the inflamed flesh that would doubtless scar, even with the mage's accomplished skills as a healer applied to himself. Anders must have been running pretty close to empty to have left such an injury only barely closed.

Anders stirred at the feel of cool air ghosting over his naked skin, his eyes slowly blinking open as Fenris folded the coverlet back over him.

“Fenris?” he murmured, the soft brown eyes regarding the elf still sleep-befuddled.

“I came directly I heard,” said the elf quietly, seating himself on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Like a pissed-off dwarf did his damnedest to disembowel me,” replied Anders, pushing errant strands of hair out of his eyes. “Why is it always me they go for?”

Fenris was about to answer when the sounds of raised voices from downstairs interrupted him. A look of irritation crossed his tanned features and he scowled. Anders sat up, glancing towards the doorway.

“Carver? What's he doing here?” he wondered. Fenris shrugged.

“He was here when I arrived,” replied the elf. He stared at Anders' scar, gesturing at it. “You should finish healing yourself,” he added, dismissing Carver out of mind as unimportant. Let Hawke deal with him.

Anders glanced down at the slash wound, spanning it carefully with one hand as he nodded. “I was almost out of mana after fighting the Carta off without my staff,” he explained. “And my lyrium potions are all back at the clinic. I did what I could, but now I'm rested.” He concentrated, and a soft blue glow suffused the hand pressed against his side.

“You should not exhaust your power beyond your ability to heal yourself,” scolded the elf.

“I didn't exactly have much of a choice,” protested Anders. “I was trying not to get killed!”

“What have you done to arouse the Carta's ire?” wondered the elf in puzzlement.

“Why does everyone always assume it's my fault?” protested Anders. “I didn't do anything – they were here for Hawke! Said they were after his blood.”

“I was not aware the Carta employed blood mages?” Fenris' expression darkened.

“Nor was I,” replied Anders quietly. “I'm not too happy at that particular thought, believe me.”

“I share your unhappiness,” replied Hawke from the door. “How are you feeling, love?”

Anders lifted his hand away to show a smooth, white line where the wound had healed up completely. “I'll be fine,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “A little tired, but none the worse for wear.”

“Good,” replied Hawke, tossing his black robes across to him. “Get dressed then.”

“Where are we going?” asked Fenris.

“To the Hanged Man,” replied Hawke. “I think it's time we had a little word with Varric about what the Carta are up to and see why he didn't send us a heads-up that they're out after Hawke blood.”

“They went after Carver too then?” guessed Anders. Hawke nodded, turning to Fenris. “Coming?” he asked the elf.

Fenris snorted, glancing pointedly at Anders. “Need you ask?”


	3. Chapter 3

“There it is,” said Varric, gesturing to the ruined remains of an old keep.

“It doesn't _look_ all that dwarvern,” remarked Carver, frowning slightly.

“These are Carta dwarves, so they're more criminals and smugglers than anything else.,”replied Varric. He scratched his cheek thoughtfully with a gloved hand as he added, “They're not usually stupid though. I don't know why they'd attack you.”

“They'd have to be stupid to sneak into the Grey Warden keep at Ansberg,” replied Carver. “People who fight darkspawn for a living aren't exactly known for their calm, laid-back demeanour.”

“Yes,well, they don't seem to be particularly big on brains,” replied Hawke drily. “They mistook a mage for me, after all.”

“You have a plan then?” asked Varric. “I found their hide-out but my sources couldn't tell me anything else; it's all very... strange.”

“Why do you say that? It's just the Carta, isn't it?” asked Hawke, frowning.

Varric shrugged. “As far as my contacts in the Carta know, they shouldn't be here – there shouldn't even _be_ a here. This place is invisible, a big blind spot on the map.” He frowned and shook his head uneasily. “Bianca's never been this suspicious, and she's twitchy to start with.”

“Does it matter?” snorted Carver. “We just need them to stop trying to kill us!”

“A fine point.,” conceded Varric. “So – what's the plan?”

“I vote for just walking in and slaughtering every dwarf in sight, personally,” remarked Carver.

“Not... _every_ dwarf,” corrected Varric.

“Present company excepted,” agreed Carver, a little abashed.

“I just don't like the idea they can get at you, Hawke,” said Anders quietly. “It worries me.”

Carver turned and stared at him in surprise. “Considering it was you who got hurt, I'd think you'd be more concerned for your own skin!” he remarked. Anders glared at him.

“Yes, well, not all of us are as self-centred as you, Carver,” he replied acerbically. “Some of us actually give a damn about other people.”

Carver turned and glared at the slender man, opening his mouth to argue.

“Not now, brother,” interjected Hawke, clapping a heavy hand on Carver's armoured shoulder as Fenris sank a clawed gauntlet into Anders' feathered shoulder, squeezing it slightly in warning.

Anders stilled and turned away; Carver stared at him quizzically, glancing from the elf to the mage and back as Fenris' hand dropped to touch Anders lightly on the arm. Fenris raised an eyebrow at Anders, cocking his head on one side in unspoken question; Anders slumped slightly, nodded, then glanced over at the keep.

Carver frowned; he was sure something significant had just happened but he was at a loss to explain what. He was missing something here, and the slight smirk on Hawke's lips suggested he knew what it was. Even Varric was giving the mage a knowing look.

“What? What's going on?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” replied Hawke. “Let's go.”  


* * *

 

Anders paused a little closer to the keep, staring up at the crumbling stones. He could feel something crawling in the back of his mind – like a spider scraping its legs over the inside of his brain. It was an old, familiar, sickening feeling, and yet... It was almost like words. He shuddered.

Fenris had grown used to telling the signs, even the small ones, and as Anders hesitated, he laid a hand upon his greatsword. “Mage?”

“Nothing....” His voice trailed off, then he shook his head. “I'm not sure. Maybe nothing.” He gestured at the stone walls. “This looks like a Warden keep, though I never heard of one here before.”

“Varric said this place does not appear on any map,” replied Fenris, not taking his hand from his sword.

“Grey Wardens have their own maps,” mused Anders quietly. He walked closer to the stone wall of the keep, pressing his fingertips to the hewn rock. He frowned slightly, then pulled away to follow Hawke, Carver and Varric. Fenris glanced up at the stones, then followed.

Past the outermost ruins of what might once have been a sizeable keep was a series of crude earthworks that looked to have been thrown up some time ago, interspersed with ramshackle wooden fencing and gates. Whatever the Carta were up to here, they didn't expect it to be discovered or to have to defend it much past keeping out wild animals, Fenris surmised. The burning merchant's Guild wagons they'd passed a short while back showed that whatever it was, the dwarves took their secrecy far more seriously than their usual lines of business however, and they would all do well to be on the alert.

Hawke and Carver had unsheathed their blades at first sight of the carnage, and Bianca rested uneasily in Varric's hands as they approached cautiously. Anders had inched up closer behind Hawke, his staff in his hand as he stared about himself; the jittery look in his eyes showed that something here was unnerving him, and he was uncharacteristically quiet.

They made their way along the foot of the ravine, and from up ahead they heard shouts and voices.

“It's the Carta,” observed Carver.

“Do you think they were expecting us?” wondered Anders as they approached the ruined stairs leading into the remains of the keep. Hawke paused, lifting a hand, as figures moved out of the shadows towards them. One dwarf stepped forward.

“You've come!” he rumbled. “Both brothers! You're here together – you've come!”

“That would be us then,” remarked Carver. Anders stared at the dwarf, a faint look of horror on his face.

“Mage?” asked Fenris softly.

“Maker, look at his _eyes!_ ” Anders whispered. Fenris stared at the dwarf and saw what had Anders so spooked; the dwarf's eyes had the milky appearance of one long gone to the Blight.

“Talking darkspawn?” guessed Fenris. Anders shook his head.

“No. They don't feel right. But....” He put a hand briefly to his forehead. “This whole place feels... _wrong._ ”

The dwarf was talking again, calling to the other Carta dwarves, all of whom had the strange unnerving milky eyes as the first. “Everyone! It's the children of Malcolm Hawke! They've come to us!”

“Wait – Malcolm Hawke?” exclaimed Hawke suddenly, stepping forward. “What does my father have to do with this?”

“It began with him, and ends with you!” said the dwarf, turning back. “Blood for blood, that's what we were told!”

“Blood again,” muttered Carver.

“We will take it!” growled the dwarf as the other Carta members moved forward. “Corypheus will walk in the sun once more!”

They didn't wait to hear more. As the Carta dwarves unsheathed their blades, Anders was already pooling mana in his hand and unleashing a spell as Fenris phased into intangibility, his greatsword in his hands as he leapt forward. Hawke paused only long enough for Anders' spell to encase the dwarves in ice before shattering them with a few well-placed blows; off to one side, he could hear Carver getting stuck in. Varric was picking off more dwarves further away with Bianca as Anders switched to ranged attacks, striking the enemy down with lightning bolts.

Carver suddenly cried out in pain as a Carta blade found its mark; without thinking, Anders sprinted towards him even as the Warden fell, clutching at his hip where an arrow had found its mark. Anders blocked the dwarf's blow with his staff, neatly reversing his grip and slashing the dwarf's stomach open with the bladed end before stabbing the creature in the face. As it fell, he threw himself down onto his knees beside the Warden, healing magic already gathering in his hands as he reached for the wound.

Hawke shook his head as he started to head in their direction, but Fenris was there before him, one clawed hand sinking through the back of the dwarf that stood poised to drive a blade through the unsuspecting mage's ribs from behind. The elf ripped the dwarf's heart out through its shoulderblade and it crumpled with a guttural choking sound. Anders looked around, startled.

“Have a care, mage,” growled Fenris before darting off.

“Nice staff work,” muttered Carver as he pushed himself back onto his feet. Anders blinked at him, then hesitantly grinned before turning back to the fray.

“Careful, brother,” remarked Hawke as he passed the Warden. “He might get the idea you actually like him.”

“He- I...” stammered Carver. “He's _useful!_ ”

Hawke laughed as he pursued the mage, who was frowning with concentration as he hurled fireballs at a wooden palisade a group of Carta archers were sheltered behind. The whole lot went up in a burst of flames and Fenris took care of the few that survived the conflagration, Varric picking off the ones that were further off.

As they forced their way through the gates into the Carta stronghold, Hawke found himself in the thick of a fierce melee, and he lost sight of the elf within moments. The singing of Bianca as her bolts found their targets informed him Varric was holding his own, and carver seemed incapable of simply shutting up and fighting – his running commentary on the dwarves' lineage and what he was going to do to them helped Hawke pinpoint the Warden quite easily. His brother hadn't become any less boastful or irritating since last they'd adventured together, it seemed. He wondered where Anders had got to – then the three dwarves trying to flank him suddenly fell, twitching and jerking, as the stench of singed flesh filled the air. Lightning bolt. Hawke smiled; the mage was fine then.

And then there was silence apart from their heavy breathing as they stared around.

“Did you hear that?” asked Carver as he shook blood off his blade. “They were after us for our _blood._ But why?”

“Excellent question,” replied Hawke. “Let's ask them. Oh, no, whoops – we killed them all.”

“You do have a knack for annoying all sorts, Hawke,” remarked Anders. “Deranged dwarves. We can check that off the list.”

“The Carta doesn't normally act like this,” said Varric slowly as he kicked over a charred body. “They're businessmen.” He paused, scuffling at something behind the body. “Hawke?” He gestured at a rock that had been obscured by the body; something had been engraved into the rock's surface.

“ _'Amgeforn the lonely vigil'_?” read Hawke slowly. “'One warrior each generation will be chosen from the warrior caste. He will stand guard until his death. Only the constant vigilance of the Stone's Children' – I suppose they mean dwarves – _'can keep the foulness of Malvernis at bay.'_ ”

“Who's Malvernis?” wondered Carver; Hawke shrugged.

“ _'The burden of living in exile under the sun is terrible, but this sacrifice, this angeforn, will ensure the sanctity of the Stone forever. Valos atredum, by decree of Paragon Ilona.'_ ” finished Hawke. “How many generations of warriors stood guard here?” he wondered. “And why does that make me nervous?”

Anders shuddered. “Whatever it is, it can't be anything good,” he muttered.

“Come on,” said Hawke. “I can't believe that this is all there is here. Let's look around some more. One handful of Blighted dwarves doesn't explain why the Carta are after our blood. And I want to know who this 'Corypheus' is.”

“Nothing good, I'll wager,” Anders said gloomily. “Names like 'Malvernis' and 'Corypheus' don't exactly conjure up visions of kitties and flowers.”

They made their way deeper into the fortress.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _'You who must serve beneath the empty sky, you stand between this Poison and the Stone. The Ancestors will remember when all others have forgotten your name. Remember your oath; it must endure beyond death itself.'_ ” Anders' voice fell silent as he shivered slightly, his hands tightening upon his staff. “ _'Be vigilant. If the Pestilent One awakens, you will know it by these signs: The air will fill with the scent of putrefaction. You will hear a sound like the cadence of drums. Malvernis the Defiler will try to weaken your will and compel you to bear the orb out of Amgeforn, but you must hold fast. This is the sacred duty which cannot be forsworn lest the Stone fall to poison and death.'_ Well, that's a cheering little message,” he added, stepping back from the stone plaque.

“But what does it mean?” asked Carver.

“Nothing good, I'll wager,” replied Hawke.

“Amgeforn... that's Dwarven for 'sacrifice',” said Varric slowly. “That's... not a reassuring name.”

“We never go any place nice, do we?” remarked Hawke, staring down at the triangular stone plinth with a shrug.

Anders turned away from the stone, glancing up at the sky as they started to head away from the Carta encampment towards the keep itself. The afternoon sun slanted down peacefully through crumbling turrets and cracks in the stone walls, yet he felt anything but peaceful as he fell into step behind Hawke. He pressed his fingers against his forehead; he could feel the start of a headache throbbing in time to his heartbeat behind his eyes.

“Mage?”

“Nothing. Don't fuss over me, elf,” muttered Anders. Fenris frowned, then moved on ahead to scout around.

 

* * *

 

“ _'We called it Malvernis'_ ” read Varric. “ _'The Pestilent One. It devoured thaigs, turning our fairest work into a noxious waste. It consumed living warriors, turning their bodies to slime, and when its hunger was not abated it turned to the bones of our ancestors.'_ ”

Anders leaned over the dwarf's shoulder. “It says here that they bound it in lyrium with the blood of a hundred warriors,” he said incredulously.

“They sound like the worst kind of magisters,” observed Fenris bitterly. “It is ever the way with magic; they disturbed something best left untouched, and others had to die for their hubris.”

“You don't know that!” objected Anders. Fenris raised an eyebrow at the mage.

“Not all mages are as altruistic as you would have us believe, mage,” he replied acerbically. “For every one who heals, there are a thousand more that would harm.”

Anders frowned at him, but rather than argue he turned and stalked away.

“Point to you, elf,” remarked Carver.

“Shut up, Carver,” replied Hawke over his shoulder as he took the mage's place beside the dwarf. “ _'We carried it here to the wasteland of the surface-'_ carried what, I wonder?”

Varric shrugged. “Nothing good, is my guess,” he replied, shouldering Bianca as he turned to follow Anders. “Hey, Blondie, wait up!”

He broke into a jog to catch up to the longer-legged apostate as they reached a stone entryway. Anders was about to take a step forward when Varric suddenly grabbed his belt, holding him back. Anders froze, one foot in mid-air.

“Whoa, Blondie,” Varric warned, jerking his chin at tell-tale cracks through the dust in the floor. The others crowded round behind them.

“A trap?” asked Carver.

“Everyone stay still and try not to make any loud noises,” warned Varric as he set to work disarming the trap. Anders kept still as Varric did something down by his hovering foot that caused a soft 'click-snickt' sound.

“OK, you can relax now,” said Varric straightening up.

“Did I just nearly lose my foot?” asked Anders as he lowered his foot cautiously.

“More like your head,” replied Varric, indicating a large blade poised on a lever at Anders' head-height. Anders nodded and carefully ducked around the blade; it was old and rusty, but he still wouldn't have liked to take his chances with it. “Crude, but effective,” remarked Varric.

“I wonder where the rest of the Carta are,” mused Carver. “That can't have been all of them, surely?”

“You and your big mouth,” muttered Hawke as a Carta arrow ricocheted off the stone wall near his head. “Come on!”

It was a short, but bloody fight. The Carta warriors were little more than armed thugs, and between them the companions made short work of them before making their way down through the inner ramparts of the outer keep. Carver glanced around the inside architecture of the fortress and groaned, recognising the tell-tale signs about them as they stared down into the massive chasm, the inner keep rising up tall and proud in the centre.

“The Deep Roads again. Like I don't get enough of that every day.” He leaned over the edge of the rampart, staring down. “There's something to be said for a Blight,” he mused. “Everything comes up where you can see it. And kill it.”

Anders gave him an incredulous look, as though he couldn't believe the words had actually come out of the Warden's mouth. Shaking his head, he turned away to follow Hawke deeper into the fortress, Varric at his side.

 

* * *

 

They had descended lower into the depths of the fortress, before they began to run into serious opposition from the Carta forces. The late afternoon sun beamed hazily down through cracks in the stone, making isolated pools of golden light here and there. Looking round the massive stone structure of the walls and the oppressive mass of rock over their heads, Anders paused and leaned on his staff, one foot resting against the corpse of the dwarf he'd just wrested it out of.

“Hawke,” he said conversationally, playing with a stray loose thread on his sleeve. “Have you ever considered joining the Grey Wardens? They'd be happy to satisfy this inexplicable urge you have to visit the Deep Roads every few years.”

Hawke laughed. “Don't you think one Hawke in the Wardens is bad enough?”

“True,” mused Anders. He stared down at the blood stains on the blade of his staff and grimaced a little, then reflected that he probably ought to be glad it weren't darkspawn they were fighting. Slinging his staff onto his back as he followed the others, he frowned. He thought he heard something.

“Does anyone else hear drumming?” he asked as they made their way down a narrow staircase to a lower level. Varric glanced back at him quizzically and shrugged. Anders glanced at the others; evidently they hadn't heard anything either. He rubbed his temple. That scratching feeling was still there, faint yet insistent – but they were descending into the Deep Roads, and darkspawn were bound to be around here somewhere. He shook his head, trying to shake off the unnerving feeling. “Just Deep Road jitters,” he told himself. He could feel Justice stirring restlessly in the back of his mind; whatever it was, Justice could sense it too, which didn't make him feel any happier.

Inwardly Anders groaned as yet another dwarf ran towards them, babbling something about “the Hawke's blood” and a master, but to everyone's surprise Varric pushed forward.

“Gerav?”

“V-Varric? No-one told me you would be a part of this!” exclaimed the dwarf. “We were just going after the Hawke!” His milky-white eyes widened in surprise.

“Really, Gerav?” said Varric in disgust. “I thought better of you than this. I mean, gutting the occasional competitor for fun and profit, sure, that's the game. But what are you all even doing here? Worshipping demons? Not exactly a healthy career move!”

“We drink the darkspawn blood,” replied Gerav, shaking his head almost apologetically. Anders drew in his breath with a faint hiss; his eyes sought those of Carver who glanced around to him. Anders' eyes widened briefly and Carver nodded, signalling his own amazement at the dwarf's words. Anders' gaze flickered briefly sideways to the oblivious Hawke and he silently put his forefinger to his lips. Carver's eyes narrowed as he glanced to his brother, then back to Anders with a questioning look. Anders shook his head, his eyes pleading. Carver nodded once, slowly, and turned away, and Anders sighed silently, his shoulders slumping, unaware of Fenris' sharp green eyes glittering in the dark, observing all..

Oblivious to the silent exchange behind their backs, Varric and Hawke squared up before Gerav, who was still trying to explain himself. “He calls to us,” the dwarf said, gesturing to his own head.

“But why would you do that?” exclaimed Hawke. “Wouldn't you just... die?”

“It's the only way to hear the music,” said Gerav sadly, his blind-seeming eyes holding Hawke's gaze briefly before flicking over to Varric.

“Oh come on, you nug-licker; snap out of it!” growled Varric in disbelieving tones. “There's no gold in hallucinating.”

“Varric, are you going to introduce us to your lunatic friend?” asked Hawke, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow.

Varric sighed. “Hawke, this is Gerav. He's a greedy, brilliant, son-of-a-nug from the Carta – or was, anyhow,” he added, glancing back at Gerav. “Gerav, this is Hawke, the one whose blood you want to drink or bathe in or whatever. But, if you're after eternal youth, I've got to tell you – he's no virgin.”

“I'll attest to that,” murmured Anders.

“Please don't,” replied Carver.

“The Master is calling,” insisted Gerav, gesturing. “He needs the blood!”

“Gerav... buddy...this isn't like you,” said Varric sadly, shaking his head. He unslung Bianca from his back in one smooth motion. “Look, I've still got Bianca,” he added. “Never misfired a day in her life. You don't want her to see her papa like this, do you?”

Anders silently unslung his staff as Carver and Fenris laid their hands on their swords. Hawke glanced down at Varric, frowning.

“Varric, do you want to spare this bastard?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in question. Varric shook his head.

“Not if he's after you, Hawke,” replied Varric. “You picked the wrong side, Gerav.”

Anders unleashed an ice blast at the exact same moment that Bianca fired, and the two brothers surged forward, blades swinging as one. Anders was aware of the elf flickering out of view, darting off to reappear behind a pair of dwarves. The greatsword swung, and two heads rolled on the floor; the elf was gone again before the bodies could follow.

Anders concentrated on placing his spells carefully, picking off Carta thugs whilst leaving his friends unharmed. He saw Hawke stagger back and put a hand to his head, torchlight glinting off fresh blood. He leapt forward, a hand outstretched, outlined with the blue nimbus of healing energies even as he pressed his palm against Hawke's back, willing the magic past the armour to channel it into the warrior's body, healing him even as Hawke raised his blade to parry a blow.

Abruptly Varric shoved him aside out of the path of another Carta blade before swinging Bianca round into position and firing her directly into the face of the unfortunate thug who crumpled immediately. “Watch your back, Blondie!” he shouted admonishingly before turning to pick another target.

Anders shook his head to dispel the throbbing in his skull; that drumming sound was getting louder. Crouching on one knee, he aimed his staff at another dwarf and fried him with a well-timed fireball.

“I hate the bloody Deep Roads,” he muttered to no-one in particular as he levered himself back up to his feet. “Oh, do piss off,” he added, ramming the blade of his staff into the guts of another would-be attacker before twisting it then flicking it to the side, disembowelling the hapless creature.

He sighed, and thought longingly of his bed back at the Hawke estate.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke coaxed the smouldering tinder into small flames, then carefully added twigs, gradually feeding the fire. He glanced up as Varric reached to take over, raising an eyebrow quizzically at the dwarf who jerked his head in Anders' direction.

“You might want to go check on Blondie,” Varric said quietly. Hawke glanced over at the apostate; Anders was sitting by himself a little way off from the rest of the party, hunched over as he sat on the ground. The point of his staff rested in the dirt a little way beyond his feet, the other end resting over his shoulder, both hands wrapped around the smooth wooden shaft, knuckles white. As Hawke straightened and got to his feet, Anders suddenly shook his head, frowning, lips moving silently.

As Hawke walked quietly towards the oblivious mage, he noted Fenris rising and doing likewise; they exchanged concerned looks as their paths converged on Anders' spot.

“Anders? Are you alright, love?” asked Hawke quietly. Anders froze, then slowly raised his eyes up to glance at them both.

“I'm fine,” he said. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Hawke crouched down in front of Anders and laid a hand over the white fingers clenched around the staff. “Because you don't look fine,” replied Hawke. “Something's bothering you.”

Anders lowered his head. “It's the Deep Roads,” he said quietly. “You have no idea what it's like... hearing, _feeling_ darkspawn all around you... not near, but near enough,”

“I do,” said Carver quietly, walking up to join them. Anders raised his head again as Carver added, “It's like a scratching inside your skull. You can't ignore it, even when you're asleep.”

Anders nodded. “An unclean feeling inside. Like a bad taste you can't get rid of.”

“I imagine it's worse for you,” remarked Carver sympathetically. “You've been a Warden longer than I have. I've heard it gets worse, the closer you get to....”

“It does,” agreed Anders. “But I can handle it. I'll be fine.” He pushed himself up onto his feet, leaning on his staff. “I'll take first watch,” he decided. “I won't be able to sleep for hours yet.”

“I'll take it with you, if you don't mind?” asked Carver. Anders regarded him sombrely, then shrugged.

“As you wish,” he said.

Hawke and Fenris watched the two Wardens walk back towards the fire which Varric now had burning merrily. Hawke let out a long, low whistle of surprise. “Well, well, well,” he said quietly. “Looks like Carver's done some growing up after all.”

“I dislike seeing the mage like this,” said Fenris quietly. “You should not have brought him, Hawke. I fear he will grow worse the deeper we go.”

“He insisted on coming,” replied Hawke uneasily. “And he knows better than we just what we're likely to face down here.”

Fenris shook his head stubbornly. “You should not have brought him,” he repeated, as he followed the others back to the fire. Hawke sighed, tailing after him. “I really hope you're wrong,” he muttered to himself.

They ate in silence; Anders' mood seemed to cast a pall over them all. He remained sitting by the fire, staring into the dying flames as the others turned in apart from Carver. The Warden sat down across the fire from the mage.

“Can you hear it?” Anders asked softly, the flames reflecting gold in his eyes.

“Hear what?” asked Carver curiously. Anders glanced up at him, then dropped his gaze back to the fire.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. He drew his staff across his lap and rested his hands upon it, his expression dark.

“What's it like?” asked Carver. “Being closer to the Calling, I mean. You've been a Warden... how many years now?”

“Don't remind me,” groaned Anders.

“Do you ever think about it? What's to come?” asked Carver.

“I try not to,” replied Anders. “Apostates aren't exactly known for their longevity. And even without the Calling, a Warden's lot wouldn't be likely to be long anyway. Fighting darkspawn isn't exactly conducive to a long life. Most Wardens don't survive long enough to hear their Call.”

“How did Garrett handle it when you told him?”

“I haven't,” Anders admitted. Carver blinked, astonished.

“But... I thought....”

“Have _you_ told him yet?” Anders demanded. Carver stared at him then dropped his gaze.

“No,” he said quietly. “I didn't know how. And I thought... with you being a Warden....” He looked up again. “I thought you would have already told him.”

Anders rose to his feet and moved away from the fire, walking away into the dark shadows. Carver glanced back at the sleeping form of his brother, then pushed himself to his feet and followed the mage.

Anders leaned on his staff, pressing his forehead against the smooth cool wood. “How do you do it?” he asked quietly as Carver stopped beside him, facing out into the shadowy reaches of the stone hallway. “How do you tell someone you love that you cannot give them everything – you can't even promise to share the rest of your life with them because of a bargain made before you ever laid eyes on them?” He turned to Carver, and the younger man could see the faint sheen of unshed tears over the soft brown eyes that regarded him with misery. “There is not a day that passes when I don't look upon them both and regret it. And yet....” He glanced away, shaking his head. “I'd likely be dead by now if I hadn't been conscripted into the Wardens. Sooner or later the templars would have decided to make an example of me instead of just dragging me back in chains.”

He took a deep breath and straightened. “You've taken to life in the Wardens, Carver,” he said, glancing out into the darkness. “I figured you for the type.”

“I'm not the coward you are, if that's what you mean,” bristled Carver. “You ran away. You couldn't even be honest with Garrett. Was the burden too great for you then?”

Anders glared at him. “The plight of every mage is my burden. You'd think with your lineage you'd understand.”

“Your whining ranks a little lower than the end of the bloody world,” sneered Carver. “But do go on. And on.”

“And there's the Carver we all know and love,” Anders said bitterly. “There was I beginning to think the Wardens had instilled some decency into you.” He shook his head. “Is it wrong to want a world worth saving?”

“Is it wrong to want a little quiet?” interjected Hawke suddenly. “I want some peace and quiet, how about that?”

Both Anders and Carver froze. How much had Hawke heard? His face pale, Anders abruptly turned on his heel and stalked off into the dark.

Hawke sighed. “Way to go, brother,” he muttered. “I thought you two were getting along, and then...” He shook his head.

“I don't understand him,” replied Carver. “He was a Grey Warden. You can't just walk away from that. Did he honestly think he could? Is he really that much of a coward?”

“Anders is a far braver man than you'll even know,” replied Hawke sombrely.

“Run as far as he can, he won't be able to outrun himself,” replied Carver quietly. “Or his past.”

“Worry about _our_ past, Carver, and leave Anders to deal with his,” suggested Hawke. “We're here to find out what Father did, and what it has to do with this... Corypheus.”

Carver stared into the dark, his eyes searching for the mage. Then slowly he nodded, walking back towards the fire.

Hawke stared into the dark, his eyes troubled.


	6. Chapter 6

Anders stalked off through the shadows, scowling to himself. After a bare handful of footsteps he naturally fell into the near-silent way of walking that had become second nature during his time with the Wardens. Strange how quickly he fell back into old habits once back in the familiar environs of the Deep Roads. Maker knew, he hated it; and yet it had its own comforts. Down here, he didn't have to be on his guard constantly against templars, for a start; he could use his magic without fear of who might be watching.

The crawling feeling in the back of his skull, like something unwholesome skittering just out of sight... he didn't think he'd ever really get used to that. But even that was preferable to the whispers.

He couldn't remember when first he started hearing them, but it had been a constant presence in his head for several hours now. He could almost make out words here and there; his footsteps faltered as he frowned, focusing within as he tried to hear what the voice was saying. He almost felt on the verge of understanding....

 _No. You will not listen. We will not obey!_

Anders reeled under Justice's unexpected onslaught as the spirit rose up in fury within his mind. He could feel the spirit's rage uncoiling and lashing out, though he was only dimly aware of what it was that Justice seemed to be trying to protect him from. Justice's anger seemed to beat against Anders' mind like a physical blow, and he sank to his knees with a groan, dropping his staff as he clutched at his head.

 _Ignore him! He will not have you! I WILL NOT PERMIT IT!!_

“Stop... please....” moaned Anders. “I can't think straight....”

 _But I must protect us!_

“Not like this!” he muttered, putting out a hand and fumbling blindly for his staff; all he could see was the fierce blue-white of Justice, and he knew he must be glowing with spirit energy. “Justice, you have to stop. We'll draw trouble. Every darkspawn for miles must be able to see us right now....”

 _I...did not mean to harm you or endanger you...._ The spirit's voice sounded abashed.

“I know, but you have to stop. Please.” He clutched his staff and breathed a sigh of relief as the glow faded and he could see once more. He slowly pulled himself up to his feet and glanced back to where he could faintly see the dying embers of the fire. He took a step back towards the camp, then stopped as a familiar feeling of nausea washed over him, the skittering inside his skull suddenly almost deafening.

“Oh Maker, no,” he groaned as he stared back into the darkness, calling up a globe of light and twirling his staff round to a defensive stance. The magelight gleamed off slick skin and dead eyes as he turned slowly around, holding the staff before him.

Darkspawn.

“Hawke!” he screamed, as they attacked.

 

Carver and Hawke both turned as one as light suddenly flared at the far end of the hallway. Anders' scream carried faintly to them, and Hawke kicked at Varric's feet as he unsheathed his blade. “Fenris!” he yelled as he sprinted towards the embattled mage; carver was already ahead of him.

The elf was already rolling out of his bedroll even as Varric threw back his blanket and sat up. Fenris sprinted lightning-fast across the cracked stones, eyes on the slender figure of the mage as he swung his staff, blasting fire from his outstretched hand even as the darkspawn closed around him. Then the magelight flickered and died as Anders screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that cu off abruptly even as Carver swung his blade, hacking into the darkspawn with fierce viciousness.

Fenris leapt forward, phasing his body into glowing translucence in mid-air as he passed through the darkspawn to stand over Anders' prone body, his greatsword singing as it sliced through the air and bit into hurlock flesh. Black ichor flew as the blade slashed through grey flesh and the glowing elf ripped hearts from bodies with his other taloned hand. He bared his teeth in a snarl as he slashed, ripped and tore, scattering blood, guts and flesh around him. His bare feet skidded in the gore as he spun to strike down another of the foul brood that attempted to strike Hawke down from behind.

He was aware of Varric's bolts striking down more darkspawn behind him as he stood over Anders, destroying any and all darkspawn that sought to reach the unconscious man. Carver and Hawke fought alongside him. He lost track of time, caught up in the intensity of battle; and yet it could only have been a short while later that the last darkspawn fell, and silence punctuated only by their ragged breathing was all that was left.

Fenris looked down at the sticky black blood that covered his arms to the elbows, and pulled a face. “Disgusting,” he muttered. Laying his sword down, he knelt beside Anders, gently rolling him over.

“How is he?” asked Hawke, dropping to one knee.

“I can't tell,” replied the elf. “We'd best get him into the light.” He gathered Anders up carefully in his arms as Hawke took his sword, and he carried him back towards the camp.

Carver stared at the elf carrying the mage, then back at Hawke. “Am I missing something here?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Only the bloody obvious beneath your nose, Junior,” replied Varric as he followed Fenris. Hawke smirked mirthlessly.

Fenris gently laid the unconscious mage down on his own bedroll. He reached out to stroke the blond hair but stopped, eyeing the darkspawn blood on his gauntlets with distaste. He stripped them off and wiped off his hands as best he could on the edge of his blanket, then carefully brushed Anders' hair away from the side of his face before starting to unfasten the mage's jacket and tunic. He drew in his breath sharply; the side of the mage's throat was torn and bloody, deep bite-marks sunk into the flesh just above his collarbone, and deep claw wounds along his right-hand-side, scoring across the ribs and reopening the sword wound.

“Oh Maker....” breathed Hawke as he reached for Anders' backpack and began hunting through it for the healing kit. Varric was already pulling out healing potions and passing them to Fenris.

“Carver, can you-” Hawke looked up at his brother, his hands full of bandages. Carver nodded.

“Warden training,” he agreed. “Out of my way.”

Fenris gently prised open Anders' slack lips and then carefully poured the first healing potion into Anders' mouth as Carver wadded up clean cloth, pressing it firmly against the gaping wound in the mage's side. “Hold that there,” he ordered his brother as he reached for the elfroot powder.

Fenris massaged Anders' throat until he swallowed reflexively, then poured in another mouthful. Carver glanced briefly at Anders' white face as he readied the poultice and pressed it into place against the wounds on the apostate's shoulder and throat.

Varric shook his head, exchanging looks with Hawke. “Blondie's beginning to make a habit of this,” the dwarf muttered.

“You mean, you make a habit of getting your healer damned near killed?” said Carver as he bound the poultice in place as Fenris held the unconscious man upright, cradling his head gently with one hand.

“He wouldn't have walked off if you hadn't been such an arse, Carver,” replied Hawke tersely.

“Oh that's right, blame me,” muttered Carver as he wound bandages firmly around Anders' ribs.

“Will you two shut up?” hissed Fenris as he laid Anders down again, his slender fingers tugging Anders' bloodstained shirt down over the bandages and smoothing it down.

Carver stared at Fenris as the elf tenderly stroked Anders' bloodless cheek.

“Are you... in love with him?” he asked slowly.

“Finally the cub gets it!” cried Varric, throwing his hands up.

“But... Garrett and Anders....” Carver looked to his brother. Hawke nodded slowly. “But then... you and _Fenris??_ ”

“Maker, no!” laughed Hawke, whilst Fenris shook his head vehemently.

“Fasta Vass – no, human!” the elf snapped.

“But – I don't get it,” said Carver, hopelessly confused.

“It's simple, kiddo,” said Varric. “Hawke loves Anders. Anders loves Hawke. Blondie also loves the elf, who in return loves him. Simple as that.”

“And Carver's head explodes,” chuckled Hawke.

“And... you're both fine with this?” Carver went on, gesturing to them both.

“I wouldn't say _fine_ , exactly,” said Hawke, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. “I don't think it's what any of us would have chosen. But... we make it work.”

“For his sake,” agreed Fenris.

Carver rose to his feet, shaking his head. “I don't get it.” He gestured to the still figure of the apostate. “He's a mage!”

“I do not need to explain myself to you, human,” growled Fenris. Carver looked back to Hawke.

“But he- you-”

“Enough, Carver,” said Hawke.

“But-” Hawke glared, and Carver subsided, slouching down on the far side of the camp fire, still looking hopelessly confused.

Varric chuckled, shaking his head. “If only Blondie could have seen that!”

Hawke sat himself down beside the prone form of his lover, gently taking a pale limp hand in his. He glanced across to Fenris; they shared a troubled glance before settling into a silent vigil together over the mage.

It would be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

_Through long aeons have I slept. Long, long have I dreamed; and in my dreams, I have called. But none have answered. Will none heed the call of the Master? Bound am I; bound mind, body and spirit, and I must dream on... but you will come. You will heed my call. The blood... the blood of the Hawke... yes, YOU are the one I have waited for. Magister's child. A slave to justice, you will be the instrument of MY justice. Bound here for eternity, hunger stilled, rage smothered, desire dampened, pride crushed... yet still I dream on, for he could not take my dreams, and now my dreams bring you to me, to my song, to my prison from which you will grant me my freedom, my faithful child...._

“No. N-no... I am no-one's servant....”

 **_He is MINE! You shall not have him!_ **

Justice. The spirit's voice sounded strangely muted, drowned beneath the beating of the drums as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

No... not drums. A heartbeat.

 _You will come, my child. You will bring him, the Hawke. Bring me the key...._

“What key? I don't understand....”

Other voices floated in and out of his hearing. A voice, calling his name. Taste of bitterness on his tongue, hands around his throat. He tried to struggle but couldn't move; his body felt strangely distant.

 _Hear me. Hear only me. Turn your face only to my song, my child. My poor, sweet child._

“...Father?”

 **_Don't listen to him. Turn away from him. He will not have you._ **

_Don't heed the tales of demons, my son. They will bewitch and beguile you. Come to me. Bring me the key... only you can free me, my child. My poor, sweet, wounded son._

 ** _No! He lies! Don't listen to him!_** The spirit's voice sounded... scared?

“Father... you're dead.... Father?”

He was burning up. There was a fire in his flesh; and yet he was drenched in ice. Delirious, he murmured fitfully, tossing his head restlessly, heedless of the blood that seeped through the white bandages.

“Hush, Anders. Don't move. You'll make it worse.”

“Maker, he's burning up. Varric, can't we do-”

He cried out, he thought; it was hard to tell in these moments between pain and dreams. Maybe he only dreamed he had. Drifting from moment to moment, it was hard to focus enough to tell truth from fevered imaginings.

He wanted to sleep. To dream again, far away from the sharp jagged edges of pain, the hard-edged shards of reality that threatened to tear him away from soft, gentle oblivion. He didn't want the clarity of pain to claim him again.

 **_You will not die. I will not let you._ **

“Not going to die,” he slurred. “Too much to do.”

 _Yes, my son, you will live... live and bring me the key...then we will live together in immortality, my tainted child. The key... only bring me the key...._

Other voices. Muffled, and yet...comforting. A hand upon his forehead; the touch cool, and then there was a tingling, and the soft hypnotic song of lyrium flooded his veins, driving out the voices, the drumming, deadening the chitinous scratching against the inside of his mind to a faint whisper.

“What is he saying?”

“Something about a key, I think.”

“Anders?”

The hand upon his forehead stroked his skin gently, drawing ripples of lyrium-song in its wake that slowly dispersed. “I think he's waking.” That voice... Fenris. Then... the hand holding his... Hawke?

Pain flooded back with his returning memory as he slowly pulled himself out of darkness towards waking; he tried to speak but all he could manage was a faint agonised groan. His side throbbed and the side of his neck felt aflame. Fragments of memory drew themselves together; the genlock hurling itself at his throat even as he swung his staff, trying to call out a warning but then the agony as it sank its teeth into his flesh and ripped at him with its claws.

He hadn't expected to wake again. He didn't want to wake.

Someone was screaming.

Maker, it _hurt_ so much. Worse than being impaled had.

As he slipped away into unconsciousness once more, he dimly realised the screaming voice was his.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
 _Wake up, my child._

He groaned. Go away. Let me sleep.

 _We have slept too long. I have been waiting for aeons, my dreams haunted by the chains that bind me. Trammelled unjustly, but you have the power to free me..._

 **_Silence! I will not let him have you!_ **

“I don't...understand....”

“Anders?”

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking, to see Varric, Fenris and Hawke leaning over him anxiously.

“This feels disturbingly familiar,” he murmured. Fenris threaded a hand into his hair, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “I feared we would lose you,” the elf growled quietly.

“I don't die that easily, it seems,” replied Anders with a weak smile. He reached a hand up to the bandages at his throat. “I'm giving you far too much practice with this, aren't I?”

“Actually, it's my brother you should thank,” replied Hawke. Anders raised his eyebrows in surprise. He made to sit up, but Fenris laid a hand on his chest as he gasped in sudden pain, his whole right side suddenly lancing white-hot agony through his body. “Oh sweet merciful Maker,” he breathed, clutching his hand to his ribs.

“Don't move,” warned the elf reprovingly.

He tried to speak, to respond, but he could feel himself slipping away again. The last thing he saw before his eyes rolled back into his head was Fenris' face, pale with worry.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Drums. Those damned drums again. They wouldn't let him be.

 **_Pay them no heed. Ignore them._ **

“Can't... head aches....” Did he say that aloud? He didn't know. It hurt.

 **_You are weakening. Too much blood loss._ **

He needed to heal himself. Too weak. **_You need-_**

 _The key. We need the key. Bring it to me, my sweet tainted child._

Father?

 **_No!_ **

Then... “Corypheus....” he breathed. _My child. Speak my name; come to me._

 **_Do not say it! You must heal yourself; you are weak! You need -_ **

“Lyrium,” he breathed faintly.

“What did he say?” He knew that voice; Hawke's.

“Sounded like... lyrium?” asked Varric. Anders tossed his head, trying to claw his way back to consciousness.

“Maybe...” Fenris' voice. His hand, cool on Anders' skin... and then the rippling trace of lyrium calling him out of his dreams once more. He opened his eyes slowly.

“How long?” he whispered.

“Four days,” said Fenris quietly.

“You've been badly hurt,” said Hawke sombrely. “We didn't dare move you. You had a fever.”

“Blondie, I don't mean to sound critical, but have you considered a new line of work?” asked Varric.

“Such as?” asked Anders weakly, raising an eyebrow.

“Pretty much anything? I don't think 'renegade mage' has a bright future. Or any retirement plan.”

“Blame Hawke,” Anders shrugged, then winced. “If he didn't keep dragging me back down to the Deep Roads....”

“That's it, blame me, why don't you?” replied Hawke with a mock scowl.

“Oh believe me, love, I do,” the mage replied with a wistful smile.

“Can you heal yourself?” demanded Carver, leaning over them all. “We can't afford to waste time – there are more darkspawn around, and you're their perfect target.”

“Well, excuse me for bleeding,” muttered Anders. Hawke glared at his brother whilst Anders closed his eyes and concentrated. He could feel the magic stirring within, pooling coolly in his hands; he pressed both hands to the white bandages over his ribs and let the healing energies flow into his flesh, knitting together broken bone, restoring blood flow, reattaching tendons, smoothing over ripped muscle, drawing back together lacerated skin. He could feel himself weakening as he drew from his body's own resources to force healing at an accelerated pace. Sweat stood out upon his brow as he forced out infection and poison. He licked suddenly dry lips as he felt the mana dwindle. “I need lyrium,” he whispered.

“I have all you need,” replied Fenris quietly. Anders opened his eyes as the elf crouched over him, cradling his face between warm, tanned palms. Fenris smiled gently as the white lyrium brands blossomed into light, and he bent down to claim the mage's mouth with a kiss. Anders' eyes fluttered shut as the lyrium song raced through his veins once more; he leaned willingly into the power and let it flow from his hands into his wounded flesh until he was whole once more; then his hands rose willingly to embrace the elf as Fenris drew him up into a firm embrace.

“Oh, for- Ugh! Maker's sakes!” complained Carver. “Do you really have to do that right now?”

Hawke raised an eyebrow at his brother as the Warden turned away in disgust from the sight of the mage and the elf clasped in each other's arms, Anders' face tilted up towards the elf as he surrendered himself gladly to Fenris' kiss, the elf devouring his mouth hungrily. Hawke laughed, then tapped the elf on the shoulder.

“My turn,” he informed the elf. Fenris broke off and glared at Hawke, then relented. Anders opened his eyes dreamily as he looked from Fenris to Hawke, then willingly allowed himself to be taken into the human warrior's arms as Hawke crushed his lips to those of the slender man.

Varric cleared his throat noisily, and the two men broke off their kiss.

“Did you want a kiss too, Varric?” asked Anders, still smiling dreamily.

“I'll pass, Blondie,” replied Varric. “You're already breaking my heart twice over.” He melodramatically pressed his hand over his heart.

“Oh, _please_ ,” groaned Carver. “Can we get a move on now?”

“You're just jealous because he doesn't want to kiss you too,” Varric chuckled.

“I am not!” exclaimed Carver.

“That's right... I haven't thanked you properly yet, have I, Carver?” mused Anders as he rose to his feet, dusting off the front of his tunic. “Here, let me show you my appreciation....” He reached out towards Carver, who shrank away in horror.

“Keep your filthy hands off me, mage!” he snapped, backing away. “I don't want your thanks!”

Anders gave a mock pout. “Hawke, I think your brother is breaking _my_ heart.”

“Better than your head,” replied Hawke as he rolled up his bedding, stowing it in his pack before rising and slinging it on his back. Varric was stamping on the remains of the fire, extinguishing it, as Fenris finished pulling on his gauntlets. Anders nodded with a rueful smile as he bent to retrieve his staff.

Anders felt almost cheerful as he and Fenris swung into step behind Hawke and Carver, Varric bringing up the rear as they moved out into the main passageway. He could almost forget the vast expanse of rock suspended far above their heads as they pressed onwards and downwards through the ancient hewn stone.

“You spoke of a key in your dreams,” remarked Fenris as they walked. Anders' feet faltered as he darted a glance at the elf.

“A... a key?” he stammered.

“Amongst other things,” agreed the elf, glancing at a collapsed doorway to their left. He paused, staring at it for a moment before deciding it posed no threat and moving on. “You rambled a great deal in your fever.” He glanced back at Anders. “You spoke of your father.”

“I don't remember him,” replied Anders absently. “He died when I was a small child. I never knew him.”

“One more thing we have in common, then,” said Fenris affably.

“Aww, so sweet,” murmured Varric. “I think I may puke.”

“Love you too, Varric,” smiled Anders.

“Will you two please take things seriously?” demanded Carver, glowering over his shoulder at the mage. Anders widened his eyes in his best innocent-who, me? expression which was lost on the Warden.

Behind him, Varric chuckled.

Well, at least _someone_ in the party still had a sense of humour....


	8. Chapter 8

“Fenris found this whilst you were out of it,” remarked Hawke as he led the party through a sequence of large rooms beyond the one Anders had been ambushed by the darkspawn in. “We've never seen anything like it – we wondered, perhaps, if you had come across anything during your time with the Grey?”

Anders stood leaning against the rusted rail, staring out across the void at the tall tower that rose up in the centre of the ancient dwarven fortress – like a stone island, whose roots were so far below in the depths that Anders couldn't see them. As he stared down at the dizzying heights, he felt a wave of vertigo sweep over him and he clutched at the rail for support, paling as he swallowed back nausea.

“There's... a whole tower down here,” he breathed. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Are you alright?” asked Hawke as he stepped back.

“Aw, the precious mage flower's afraid of heights!” scoffed Carver as he strode up to the balustrade and made a big show of leaning over.

“Don't-!” began Anders, reaching out a hand to stop him, just as Carver made the fatal mistake of looking down.

“Sweet Maker...!” he muttered in a choked voice, and hurriedly stepped back.

“Bit high up is it?” remarked Hawke drily. Carver darted him a black look.

“We're not here for sight-seeing,” he muttered, turning away. “Come on. We've wasted enough time down here already.”

As they filed into another room, Carver stepped up closer to his brother. “This is a real mess,” he said quietly. “Is it terrible that I'm glad Mother isn't around to suffer this?”

“She knew what to expect,” replied Hawke tersely, pausing to poke at the rotting remains of a crate with his sword. He frowned at it, then pressed on.

“The sides we're on, it's all but guaranteed one of us would be worrying her,” mused Carver sombrely. “If I knew how to fix that, well....” his voice tailed off. He walked in silence for a while beside his brother. Hawke glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. Carver grimaced and shook his head.

“It doesn't matter. Let's just get this mess cleaned up.” He strode on ahead, taking point.

“Hearing your father's voice has him rattled,” remarked Varric quietly.

“Him and I both,” replied Hawke. “When that last shade bit the dust and I heard Father....” He shook his head.

Anders kept silent as he walked behind them, biting a thumbnail distractedly. He did not dare admit that the haunting sound of Malcolm Hawke's voice had raised an entirely different spectre for him; one that he feared only he could hear. Even now, the faint dry whisper still lingered, like a faint taste of lyrium on the back of his tongue – bittersweet, seductive. He could feel Justice poised, dagger-like, ready to strike back should the voice of Corypheus raise above that haunting whisper. For now, he could force it to the back of his mind, much as he was used to doing with the foetid skittering of darkspawn taint inside his skull – to be discounted until it rose above a distracting murmur.

Like now.

“Darkspawn,” he hissed as he reached for his staff, his eyes already searching the shadowy expanses of the room they had entered for the group of genlocks he knew lurked...

“There!” A twirl of his staff, a flare of mana, and a bolt of fiery white lightning streaked away to blast at the creatures, and the battle was joined. “Five genlocks – watch out, there are two hurlocks behind you, Carver!”

He wasn't even looking at Carver; he heard the warden exclaim in surprise as he spun, already raising his sword. Anders had his back to Carver, but all the same he could practically _feel_ the incredulous stare Carver sent in his direction. He grinned as he gestured towards the genlocks, encasing the feet of two in ice; after this many years with the taint growing in his blood, he could distinguish the differences between wardens and the different types of darkspawn by – well, it wasn't quite _feel_ and it wasn't fully _taste_ , but the sense lay somewhere between the two. Justice could blind him to it, and when Corypheus' whispering voice sang it made things blur into unreality; but when he was concentrating as he was now, the magic singing loudly in his veins like quicksilver and starfire, then he _knew_ where and what they were.

He _knew_ with a different sense exactly where Fenris was, too; the elf's lyrium blazing sung like a siren to his mage senses; like a magnetic pull no matter where he was. Right now, that was right in the middle of three genlocks, right in the heart of trouble. Anders' magic knew the elf; it had healed him before. He knew almost as soon as Fenris did when one of the genlocks managed to make it past the elf's guard as he briefly phased back into corporeal tangibility to sink its fangs deep into his shoulder.

Fenris' cry was high and shrill as the creature bit down hard, nearly drowning out the sickening sound of cracking bone. Anders was already moving, running, leaping over the body of a hurlock, skidding slightly on the slick of blood that was spreading slowly across cracked paving stones, twirling his staff overhead with both hands as he called up fire and then speared the staff blade down into the genlock, discharging the fireball directly into the creature's spine even as it howled in agony, pierced by the heavy tempered steel point.

Fragments of bone and flesh, gobbets of innards, coils of stinking guts and gouts of blood exploded outwards in all directions; Anders barely had a moment to throw up a shield against the backblast. Barely had the wet detritus settled to the floor when he dropped the shield, throwing himself to his knees beside the elf, who was slowly pushing himself back up onto his knees, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand as blood ran down his back from the ragged wound. His left arm hung limp and useless by his side.

Heedless of all else around him, Anders dropped his staff and reached for Fenris, who was silent despite the agony he must be in. The elf turned his head a little towards Anders as the mage gently laid a glowing hand against his arm. “Mage,” he managed to greet him weakly, then slumped back against him. He let his hand fall away from the wound, and Anders laid his own over the bloody raw flesh, extending his senses down into the mess of shattered bone and torn muscle. Closing his eyes, he sank his senses along with his magic into the wound, shifting and realigning bone, reattaching tendons and sinew, renewing white blood cells, healing muscle, driving out dirt and poison. He delved deeper, his mind searching through the elf's blood, drawing upon the lyrium branded into the elf's skin as he sent healing all through Fenris' body, searching out for any trace of taint. Finally he withdrew, satisfied that the elf had escaped the Blight on this occasion. Bite wounds could literally mean life or death, and frequently it was down to pure chance.

As he opened his eyes, he drew the elf into a tender embrace. “You let yourself get surrounded,” he chided gently.

“Once again, it seems I owe you my thanks and my life, mage,” Fenris said quietly. Anders buried his face against the newly-healed skin.

“I owe you mine several times over,” he breathed.

“Fenris?”

They both looked up at Hawke. “He's OK,” Anders replied. “No Blight.”

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief.

“How in the name of Andraste's tits did you know?” demanded Carver as he stomped over towards them, wiping off his blade with a rag. “I felt there were darkspawn, but you seemed to know exactly where they all were – even _what_ they were!”

“It's something that comes with time and practice,” replied Anders. “You can sense me, right?” The warden nodded. “Well, I can sense you standing right next to me – but I can also sense more taint over there.” He gestured towards the wall to the left. “The closer I am to them, the more detail I can feel.” He glanced towards the room up ahead. “For instance, in there I can feel-”

Anders broke off, his eyes narrowing. What could he feel? Not darkspawn – or if it was, then none he had ever encountered before.

“What?” asked Hawke. “Anders?”

Anders fumbled for his staff and slowly rose to his feet, frowning in confusion. “I... don't know,” he said slowly. “It feels like...” He shook his head. “I don't know _what_ it feels like,” he said quietly. “I don't....”

Hawke helped Fenris to his feet as he glanced to his brother, who shrugged.

“I feel it too,” he confirmed. “Damned if I know what it is though.”

“Then I guess we'd better find out,” replied Hawke. He turned and started walking towards the archway leading into the next room, Carver at his side. Fenris and Anders fell in behind them, Varric bringing up the rear.

As they entered the next hall, something moved at the far end – a shadowy figure that shuffled slowly towards them, then moved faster with a peculiar lop-sided gait.

“The key!” rasped the creature hoarsely, as though it were unused to speech and its voice had become rusty with disuse. “Did they find it? The dwarves? I heard them … looking … digging ….” It drew itself upright before them, and they were finally able to discern that it was a man.

Or, rather had been a man. The rheumy eyes that regarded them keenly were Blighted and white, the hair unkempt and patchy, as though from mange. The skin was dirty and sallow, almost grey. He wore battered and rusted armour that had not been cared for in years. The teeth were yellow and chipped, his breath rank and stinking of the grave. Yet there was an intelligence of a sort in the milky gaze that stared hopefully into Hawke's face. “How do you bring the key here?”

“You mean this?” asked Hawke, unslinging the strange staff he had acquired from the body of one of the Carta dwarves shortly before the dwarves had sealed them in. “How is this a key?”

“Magic... old magic it is, from the blood,” replied the creature. “It made the seals. It can destroy them.”

Anders stared at the creature. Something about it seemed almost horrifyingly familiar, though he couldn't quite say why. It was most certainly the source of the strange taint feeling he had sensed from the other hall; the creature didn't appear to be any darkspawn he's ever known, but nor was it human. At least, not any longer. An unpleasant suspicion was beginning to dawn in his mind.

“I came here to find Corypheus,” said Hawke. “Do you know where, or what, he is?”

At the mention of the name, the whispering in the back of Anders' mind grew more intense, even as the creature before them recoiled.

“Do not say his name! He will hear you! Do not wake him!” He gestured towards the staff. “Not when you hold the key!”

Hawke slung the staff back onto his back and folded his arms. “Let me guess – you want to drink my blood too?”

“Blood? The blood of the Hawke?” The creature shuffled away, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Are... you the Hawke?” It narrowed its eyes then turned back. “Yes... I smell the magic on you.” Limping, it turned and shuffled closer to Hawke. “But you hold the key! The key to his death... yes, I can show you out, yes....”

“Who are you? What's wrong with you?” asked Hawke, frowning.

“ _You_ ask _me_ that?” replied the creature, drawing itself up. “I am the one who belongs here, not you! You are no darkspawn!”

 _And nor are you_ , Anders thought to himself. _Not... yet_. He was beginning to suspect he knew just what this creature was – or rather, might have been. The armour was familiar beneath the rust. He shook his head silently. No. It can't be....A look of horrified sympathy slowly crossed his face as he glanced to Carver and saw that he, too, was sharing the same thoughts.

“That armour. That's Warden issue,” the younger Hawke said quietly. “No-one has that.”

“You hear it, no? Hear it calling?” asked the creature, it's milky gaze flickering from Carver to Anders. “I smell it in you.” It turned and shuffled away slowly. “I know the way out. Down and in. Down and in.” It glanced back over its shoulder at Hawke. “You must use it, yes? The key. You must use it on the seals. Every seal, you touch the key to it. Only then they open. Only for the Hawke.”

It shuffled away, and after exchanging glances, Hawke and Carver began to follow.

“That... man, and how corrupted he is? Remember that,” Carver said quietly to Hawke, thumping the griffon emblazoned on the breastplate of his armour. “That's what I'm fighting for.”

“It is appreciated,” replied Hawke tersely. He glanced back briefly to Anders, whose amber gaze seemed abstracted and troubled.

“You're damned right it is,” pushed Carver.

“Then we agree on something,” said Hawke firmly.

“Well... good,” muttered Carver.

“Good,” replied Hawke.

Varric rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Kids,” he muttered.

The creature led them to a large room, empty apart from a circular dais. It was cross-quartered by carved lines, a flaming torch upon a pillar standing at the end of each line. The creature gestured at the dais, and Hawke approached it.

Suddenly a loud crack rent the air as a large, dark demonic creature appeared in the centre of the circle. With a roar, the guardian leapt towards them; the party scattered, flanking the thing on all sides. Bianca rang out as Varric put some distance between himself and the monstrous guardian, firing bolts into its unwholesome flesh. Anders kept up a bombardment of spells, alternating between ice blasts and glyphs of paralysis, to fireballs and lightning strikes. Carver, Hawke and Fenris settled for what they did best – leaping in to butcher the creature with blade and – in the case of Fenris – lyrium-powered claws.

As demonic entities went, this one was perhaps less trouble than some demons Anders had faced; still, he was glad when at last the guardian fell. Hawke stepped up onto the dais, unslinging the staff. There was a flash of light, and then Hawke groaned as bright, fierce energies enveloped the staff in his hand with a high-pitched crackling. The others were forced to look away from the blinding brilliance until finally the magical fire died and the light faded once more.

Hawke stared at the staff; it glowed with a dull red glare which slowly dispersed until the staff was cold, dark and heavy in his hands once more.

“Two thousand years, the magic holds,” said the strange, taint-corrupted man as he shuffled out of the shadows once more. “Never broken. But the blood... the blood works. It is good.”

“Who _are_ you?” asked Hawke, staring down at the shabby creature.

“Name? So long since I've said my name.” He turned and limped slowly towards a plaque on the wall. “L..La...Larius?” He turned and seemed to smile at them. “I was Larius!” He turned back to the plaque; as they drew closer, they could see it was emblazoned with the same griffon design as Carver's breastplate, and that of Larius. “There was … a title, too. Commander.” He stared up at the griffon. “Commander of the Grey.”

“He was a Warden,” said Anders, his voice filled with horrified sympathy. “Poor wretch must have come down here on his Calling....”

“That's how it affects you?” asked Carver, equally horrified. Anders slowly nodded as he glanced back at Larius.

“Yes! The Calling... the songs get louder. Only death stops them,” answered Larius as he turned and began to limp closer to them, peering at Anders, who felt a cold shill down his spine.

He was looking at his own fate.

“I am dead,” said Larius, his eyes never wavering from those of the mage, almost as though talking only to him. “But I never died.”

“Anders?” asked Hawke, turning to him, a look of confusion on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Wardens aren't immune to the taint forever,” he replied reluctantly. “In time, we... start to hear voices. The same ones darkspawn hear.”

“Not exactly a hero's end, is it?” Carver said sombrely. Hawke turned until he was facing the two Wardens – one, his brother, the other his lover. He glanced between them, comprehension slowly dawning.

“Then... that means...”

Anders slowly nodded. “One day, we'll hear the voices. It'll be our turn to go to our Calling.” He glanced over Hawke's shoulder at Larius, but his eyes became distant, seeing a future he would not be able to share with Hawke. “And we will become... _that_.” He gestured at Larius, who nodded.

“Anders...” breathed Hawke. “How long....”

Anders turned away. “Not now. Later.”

Hawke stared at him, his expression incredulous and horrified. He glanced back at his brother.

“How long?” he repeated. Carver hung his head.

“Thirty years, from the day of our Joining. Give or take a couple of years.”

“Maker!” whispered Hawke. “Why did you not tell me?”

Carver regarded him miserably. “I didn't know how.”

“Carver... oh Maker, I'm so sorry! It was my fault! I did this to you....” breathed Hawke, reaching out a hand to grasp his younger brother's shoulder. Carver shook his head.

“No. It was as much my decision as yours. If I hadn't joined the Wardens I'd be dead of Blight.” He laid his hand over Hawke's. “I don't regret it. Not one bit. Don't you dare.”

Hawke stared into his brother's eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I already did,” replied Carver with a sad smile. He glanced over towards Anders, and Hawke took a step towards the mage who stood with his head bowed, forehead pressed against his staff. Fenris stood beside him, face rigid with shock and disbelief as he stared from the apostate to Larius, then back again.

“Love,” said Hawke quietly, taking a step towards him, but abruptly Anders wheeled away and strode on ahead of them all.

He would not let them see him weep.


	9. Chapter 9

His mind was still reeling, even as they followed Larius out of the room.

Oh, he had _known_ – well, as much as anyone could be said to know until their own Calling, but he'd seen others when they finally could withstand their own Calling no longer, and embarked on their final journey into the Deep Roads. He'd always assumed they died down there – one last stand against the darkspawn before the Blight finally overtook them. And he'd seen the horrible deaths suffered by those who succumbed to the Blight; dying in one last glorious battle seemed far preferable.

But to think that the truth was far more horrible – that instead of dying, one would linger on in an eternal half-life, never dying but not truly alive, an unwholesome, undead thing, barely aware of who or what you were...

 _You will not end like that, I promise, my child. Only come to me; bring me the key, and I promise that you will have eternal life, not that lingering non-existence. Come to me, my poor tainted child... I have been waiting so long...._

He clutched at his head as the horrible, hypnotic voice seemed to fill his mind with a sickly sweetness.

“I'm not listening... I'm not listening!” he growled, through gritted teeth. He was dimly aware of the others gathering round him; a hand on his shoulder – Hawke? Fenris? He had no idea.

“Come on, Blondie. You're strong enough to overcome this.” Varric. He clung to the sound of the dwarf's voice as something trusted and familiar as he put out a shaking hand and leaned against the nearby wall. With an effort of will, Anders forced down the voice inside his head, refusing to be drawn into it. Slowly he lifted his head.

Varric raised an eyebrow at him.

“I'll be alright,” he muttered. “Let's get a move on.” He shoved himself away from the wall and set off once more after Larius.

It was getting easier to feel the darkspawn. Even before he stepped into the room, he gestured with his staff. “Two genlocks there. _Three hurlocks, **far wall, left-hand side.**_ ” He gathered lightning in his hand, unaware his eyes had begun to glow as he stepped across the threshold, adding “ _ **Fenris, we'll take the Profane.**_ ”

Hawke and Carver didn't question him; they stepped through and instantly turned to the right to engage the genlocks as Varric opened fire from the doorway on the hurlocks. Anders froze the Profane with a blast of ice as the elf darted in to engage with it before the mage spun and threw another ice blast at the hurlocks. He felt the genlocks fall one after the other behind him as he blasted the Profane with lightning; he was vaguely aware of Hawke and Carver sprinting past him to engage the hurlocks as Varric turned and started blasting at the Profane. He twirled his staff, reversed it, and jabbed pure spirit force at the being, feeling strangely disconnected and yet somehow acutely aware of everything at the same time.

“ ** _Carver!_** ” yelled Anders, unaware of the strange, deeper echo to his voice, oblivious to the spirit energies that had begun to crackle and dance across his skin.

“I see them!” replied Carver as two skeletal Corpses rose up in the corner. Anders turned his attention back to helping Varric and Fenris finish off the Profane as Carver and Hawke dealt with the Corpses. Then Hawke turned back to stare at Anders.

“So who exactly is leading this little expedition, Anders?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Anders blinked, then stared down at his hands. The faint blue glow of spirit energy was dispersing even as he stared. He looked back up at Hawke.

“I knew where they were,” he pointed out. “I could feel them so clearly.”

Hawke shook his head. “No, I can see it made sense,” he replied, walking back towards the mage. “It just seems...rather forward of you, Anders.” He inclined his head a little to one side as his eyes narrowed. “It... _is_ Anders... isn't it?”

Anders stared at Hawke, stricken. “Garrett... love... it's _me_. Not Justice. Look at my eyes. I'm not possessed, I swear it!”

Hawke patted Anders' arm. “It's getting harder for you to resist him down here, isn't it?” he said quietly.

“I can control it,” said Anders through gritted teeth.

“I told you he should not have come,” said Fenris. Anders stared at him, stung.

“You have no faith in me, do you?” He stared at the elf, then Hawke; neither could meet his eyes. “Any of you?” He stared around at Carver, who rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, then turned his gaze to Varric.

“You can handle this, Blondie,” the dwarf said with calm assurance. “You're stronger than that.”

“Thank you,” Anders said with quiet gratitude.

“Let's get a move on,” said Hawke uncomfortably. “Carver, take point.” He brother nodded; he gave Anders one last worried look then moved ahead.

“Carver?” called Anders; the Warden looked back. “There's more darkspawn in there.”

Carver nodded. “I feel them,” he confirmed with a nod, then hefted his sword and headed on.

Anders hung back to fall into step beside Varric. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Varric,” he said quietly.

“Ah, you're just getting yourself all jittery down here,” the dwarf said, waving a hand. “You do it every time.”

Anders nodded gloomily. “I really need to stay out of the Deep Roads,” he agreed.

Fenris glanced back over his shoulder at the mage. “You speak of disliking the Deep Roads a great deal. Why?”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “Besides the obvious, you mean?”

“It's a dangerous place, but less so for a Grey Warden,” replied Fenris as he dropped back to walk beside the mage and the dwarf.

“Darkspawn this, darkspawn that. Taint, taint, taint taint _taint_ ,” replied Anders, his voice growing steadily bitter. “After a while, you just get so tired of it, you know?”

“I... do now,” replied Fenris slowly. He glanced around the bare stones, drifts of dust and sand, bare rusting metal of railings, rotting remains of doors, and glanced back to Anders. “How can anything live here? What do the darkspawn feed on?”

“They don't eat,” replied Anders shortly, the distant look in his eyes showing his mind was on other things. “The taint sustains them. As it does Larius, I guess.”

“This isn't so bad, Blondie,” said Varric. “You could be losing more coin to the elf in a game of Wicked Grace.”

Anders groaned as Fenris gave a rare chuckle. “Don't remind me! At this rate, I'll still be paying him back when I'm dead!” Fenris patted him on a feathered shoulder.

“I'm sure you can think of... other ways to repay me, Beloved,” he remarked quietly. Anders turned and looked down at him, a fond look in his soft warm brown eyes. “Just get me out of here in one piece,” he murmured.

“We'll get you out of this, Blondie,” promised Varric, patting his arm. Anders lowered his head, grateful for the support of his friends. He could feel the whispering starting again in the back of his head, but when Fenris slung a comforting arm around his slender waist, it retreated again to a point where he could ignore it.

For a while, anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know - I'd previously stated the key was a staff, and here it's a sword. This is one of those occasions on which my not having played the game resulted in diverging a bit from the actual game; of course, if Hawke is a warrior, then the key is a sword instead. I'll be editing earlier references to the key accordingly. I've already taken some liberties inadvertently by not realising that if Hawke is anything other than a mage, then it's Carver who died, not Bethany. My apologies for any further inaccuracies that may creep in thanks to my not being a gamer!

He was getting worse.

He knew it himself; he was aware of the others watching him keenly. They were starting to become attuned to his reactions; the slight twist to his face as the familiar tide of nausea rode over him was Fenris' cue. “Carver.”

“I feel them,” nodded the Warden, glancing back to Anders as Hawke and Fenris readied their blades. The brief blue-white sheen over Anders' eyes, watching which way he turned – anticipating where the attack would come from.

Brief moments during the fight when he would feel the spirit energy wash over him, another will overlaying his, the blasts of power from his outstretched hand or launched from the point of his staff not born of any spell from his lips but born from within as Justice took a more direct hand in the battle. It was easier to ride it out, work with the spirit than fight against it.

They could tell when they were getting closer to the next seal; the waves of darkspawn increased, and a thin sheen of perspiration beaded the mage's brow as he dreaded what was to come when the seal was broken.

Carver paused by a mezzanine railing, staring down into the room below. “Isn't it odd that a darkspawn-filled pit is making me feel closer to Father?” he mused, glancing at his older brother. Hawke stared at the shadowy forms of the creatures as they milled restlessly, then glanced back over his shoulder. Anders was staring down at the creatures with a look of horrified fascination, a slightly greenish cast to skin. As Hawke watched, he swallowed, fighting down another wave of nausea. Fenris stepped up close beside the mage, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. Anders shrugged it off irritably.

“I'm fine,” he muttered. “Stop fussing.”

Carver and Hawke exchanged glances. “Come on,” said Hawke. “Let's get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

As the desire demon crumpled and faded, a blue haze formed in the centre of the room, coalescing slightly into a vaguely humanoid shape; the hollow voice of Malcolm Hawke echoed in the stone room. Hawke and Carver followed it with their eyes as it slowly drifted past.

“ _I've bought our freedom, Leandra. We can go home now, us and the baby. We'll be together._ ” It began to slowly disperse, the voice slowly fading. “ _I hope it takes after you, love. I would wish this magic on no-one._ ” As the blue haze disappeared, the last words hung upon the air; “ _May they never learn what I've done here._ ”

Hawke turned slowly to Carver.

“Father didn't want a child with magic? He got that one wrong then,” said Carver. “I guess the Warden's looking pretty good then.”

“Like we've seen here today, what Father's kind have to deal with every day is beyond you,” replied Hawke, his eyes briefly flicking to the mage.

“That does loom heavy,” admitted Carver, “But everything's in the shadow of the Blight.” He paused, then shook his head. “Maker, it's like we're back in Lothering, sniping for no reason.” He toed a pile of bones with one foot. “I did worry for Bethany,” he added quietly. “She just wanted to be 'normal'. As if either of us made a good case for it.”

“She knew what we all could be. Mages _and_ us. Glad you're starting to see it too,” replied Hawke.

Carver glanced over to Anders, who stood silently nearby, lost in his own thoughts. “We'll see, I suppose,” he answered. He glanced back at Hawke. “As far as we get, they're still gone – Father, Mother. Bethany. I'm tired of losing things. Even you, sometimes,” he added wryly. “Gamlen can go suck an egg.”

Hawke snorted in derisive laughter. Carver smiled awkwardly. “Come on. This mess down here – it's not following us out.”

Hawke nodded, and they headed off together, the others falling into place behind them.

 

* * *

 

The next seal was guarded by more than one guardian demon. They were hard-pressed to defeat them; as soon as one fell, it seemed two more were lining up to take its place. Anders was barely putting up even a token resistance to Justice; increasingly as the others glanced at him, the glare that returned their gaze was an inhuman fiery blue-white instead of the apostate's amber brown regard. As the last demon guardian fell, Anders stood still for several minutes, his expression curiously blank before the spirit fire faded and he blinked slowly. He glanced to Hawke warily.

“Ready?” asked Hawke. Anders nodded briefly and steeled himself.

Hawke drew Malcolm's sword and stepped into the centre of the seal. As before, both Hawke and the sword were suddenly bathed in brilliant glaring light as the seal surrendered its magic to the blade until finally the light died away. The sword glowed a dull red which slowly faded.

Instantly, Anders' head was filled with hissing whispers, the haunting voice that filled his dreams. _Yessss, my child... come closer, bring the key nearer... each step brings you nearer to me. Why bother trying to resist? You are so tired, so weary, my poor son. Come, release me; yield up your burden. Open up your mind and your heart. Open up to me, my beloved...._

“No!” choked Anders, clutching at his hair, eyes wild and desperate. “Get out of my head!”

Carver reached out and grasped Anders' shoulders, shaking the mage lightly. “Anders? Anders!” The mage's eyes stared blankly through the Warden as he gritted his teeth, raking his hands through his hair as he shook his head. “Maker, it's like he doesn't even hear me!”

“Hang in there, Blondie; we'll get you out of this,” said Varric; Anders seemed oblivious, closing his eyes and groaning.

“Garrett, we've got to do something to calm him down,” said Carver.

“Hawke,” said Fenris as he pushed Carver aside and reached up to cup Anders' face between his hands, careful not to pierce the agitated mage's skin with the talons of his gauntlets. Hawke nodded and stepped up close behind Anders, wrapping his arms around the distressed apostate and resting his head against a feathered shoulder as Fenris let his lyrium brands flare into life.

“Anders. Listen to me. It's Fenris.”

“We're both here for you, love,” breathed Hawke as Anders struggled briefly. Then he bent his head down and opened his eyes.

“Love?” he breathed softly, one hand stealing slowly up to touch the elf's face hesitantly as the other hand reached up to close over Hawke's hands which were pressed firmly over his racing heart. “Garrett?”

“Beloved?” said Fenris softly. Anders slumped and closed his eyes in thankful relief.

“I think we'd best make camp,” suggested Varric. “I don't think Blondie's in any fit state to go any further right now.”

Carver nodded. “I agree.”

“You three just... take your time,” said the dwarf gently. “Carver, let's set things up.” Carver stared at the three, huddled together, the mage held safe and comfortingly by his two lovers, then nodded as he turned to assist Varric.

“You seem to be softening a bit towards Blondie,” remarked Varric quietly. “Changing your tune on mages?”

“He's a Warden,” replied Carver. “He may be an irritating sod, but no-one deserves to go through what he's dealing with right now.” He started to kick apart an old rotten crate for firewood and kindling. “Andraste's tits, where do all these crates come from, anyhow?”

“Beats me,” shrugged the dwarf. He set to work kindling a fire.

“He is waking,” said Larius as he shuffled into the small circle of brightening firelight. Carver jumped; he'd been growing so used to the background feeling of taint that Larius' approach had gone unnoticed.

“The magic grows lax,” the old Warden continued. “He feels us walk where no step goes.”

Hawke reluctantly pulled away from Anders, relinquishing him into Fenris' embrace. Anders rested his head upon the elf's shoulder, nestling his face against the side of Fenris' neck. Fenris wrapped his arms around the slender man.

“Are you talking about Corypheus?” asked Hawke, walking towards Larius.

“He calls,” Larius nodded. “Like an Old God. He mimics their cry.”

Anders lifted his head and glanced round. “Can the rest of you hear him?” he asked wonderingly. “I figured it was just me.” There was a look of mixed relief and embarrassment in his eyes. Carver scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“I thought I heard...” he shook his head. “I thought I was only dreaming.” He glanced at Anders almost apologetically. “Nothing like what you seem to be feeling though.”

“He calls them to free him,” said Larius. “The dark children and the light, any with taint in their blood.”

“If Corypheus isn't an Old God, then what is he?” asked Hawke. “Human, demon, darkspawn?”

“More than darkspawn,” replied Larius. “More than human. He thinks. He talks. He pierces the Veil.”

“You're talking about an awakened darkspawn,” remarked Carver. “The Wardens have only encountered them once.”

“That's the Wardens,” replied Anders quietly. “Always so sure of everything.” He gently detatched himself from Fenris and walked over to stand next to Hawke.

“He wants what was once his,” said Larius.

Hawke frowned. “How could this Corypheus be sending people after me if he is asleep?”

“He can call,” replied Larius. “Dream, but not know. When the seals are gone, he will awake – and he must die.”

“Why are you down here?” asked Hawke. “How have you survived?”

“The Calling,” replied Larius, his Blighted gaze going to Carver before lingering upon Anders. “The music. It is our death.”

“The Wardens say that once the corruption goes far enough, the darkspawn can't sense you anymore,” explained Anders quietly.

“Your last advantage as you throw yourself at them,” nodded Carver.

“Yes,” agreed Larius. “I lived, but I died. The corruption feeds me. So many years in darkness....” He looked away, then glanced back “I know the darkness before the seals,” he added quietly as he turned and started shuffling away into the darkness. “Here, the voice is too strong. Too strong....”

They turned and looked at each other. “It's not just me then,” said Anders to Carver. “You can hear it too? It's not just... just all in my head?”

“You're not going mad, if that's what you mean,” replied Carver. “Well, no more so than anyone with a Fade spirit already in your head, I guess.”

Anders' expression darkened and he turned away.

“Way to go, Carver,” muttered Hawke. “Just for that, you're on first watch tonight.”

Carver groaned and followed Hawke back towards the fire.


	11. Chapter 11

“Hawke,” murmured Fenris later that evening, after Anders had rolled himself up in his grey Warden blanket and sunk into a restless sleep. “I would talk with you.”

Hawke glanced up from mopping up the last of his stew with a crust of bread. He glanced over at the sleeping mage. “I suspect our minds are on the same thing right now.”

The elf stared down at his hands. “How long has Anders been a Grey Warden?”

“I don't know,” admitted Hawke. “He's rarely spoken about it. But...” he frowned. “He can't be near his Calling. Can he? He's not old enough, surely?”

Fenris shrugged. “How many Grey Wardens are abominations?” he asked, glancing at Carver. Carver shook his head.

“None that I know of,” he said, spreading his hands. “I have no idea what effect that would have on the taint. I don't think anyone does; maybe the First Enchanter in the Ferelden Circle....” He shook his head. “I've not been a Warden long though. I'm out of my depth on this one.”

“I will not allow him to become like Larius,” stated Fenris flatly. “I will kill him myself rather than see him meet that fate.”

“Aren't you being a bit hasty there, elf?” asked Varric as he sat himself down by the fire. “Sure, he's hearing voices – but according to the undead Warden, pretty much anyone round here is going to be hearing 'em if they have any taint in them at all – darkspawn or Warden. That doesn't mean you're all getting your Calling though.”

“But Anders is far more affected than even Larius,” pointed out Hawke.

“So, he's maybe fighting it a damned sight harder than anyone else. Maybe sharing head-space with Justice has, I don't know, sharpened up his spooky hearing or something?” The dwarf shrugged. “All I'm saying is, you all seem to be rather hastily deciding whether to kill a man who's been your friend for years – in your cases-” he stared hard at Hawke and Fenris - “he's been your lover.” He held Hawke's gaze. “Tell me, Hawke; could you honestly stare into Blondie's eyes – the man you've bedded – and stick that knife of yours into his heart?”

Hawke blanched. “No... I...” He dropped his head into his hands. “Maker, no. I can't. I couldn't.” Varric nodded and stared at Fenris.

“You said you'd never loved before him, elf. You said you'd die for him. Could you really kill him?”

“It would destroy me – but yes,” Fenris nodded, his voice quiet. “I would. I would spare him Larius' fate.”

Anders moaned and tossed restlessly, tangled up in his blanket. They fell silent, all eyes upon the mage as he rolled over onto his back, one hand clutching at his head. “No... I won't listen... Father, please, I – I can't do this....”

“He worsens,” said Fenris quietly.

“You'd better calm him before he draws unwanted attention,” warned Carver.

Fenris nodded, rising from his position by the fire and crossing over to the sleeping man who had rolled over onto his side with a whimper. Grabbing his bedroll, the elf stretched out alongside the mage, pulling him into his arms so that Anders' head was cradled against a tanned, lyrium-branded shoulder. He began to softly murmur to the sleeping man whilst his tattoos faintly glowed with a soft, pure silvery light; gradually Anders fell silent and settled into a deeper, peaceful sleep.

“How long can he withstand it?” asked Carver, rubbing his forehead. “He's already lost it to Justice. Surely it's just a matter of time before he succumbs to Corypheus?”

“I'm not giving up on him,” growled Hawke.

“Let's hope Blondie doesn't give up either,” remarked Varric gloomily.

 

* * *

 

Silver chains bound him; fine as thread yet impossibly strong. They glowed with a faint white light through the eerie yet familiar green-tinged light that pervaded everything in the Fade. He hung suspended from them, delicate silver wires that entwined about his arms, his bare torso, his legs – even about his throat. They bit into his pale flesh, choking him; it was hard to draw breath. The silver wires burned like lyrium where they touched his skin; movement was pain, but stillness was also torment.

He had no idea how long he'd been hanging there; awareness seemed to dawn slowly. He lifted his head slowly, drawing breath with a faint hiss as the chains cut into his flesh. He looked around, daring to move only his eyes. His arms were burning with the strain of being suspended; thin rivulets of blood trickled down his arms and across his chest.

“ _My child._ ”

The voice... he knew it instantly. It had been steadily tormenting him ever since he had set foot in the keep. It had only grown worse as they had gone deeper. Now the voice seemed to surround him.

“Justice?” he croaked, staring about him for the Fade spirit.

“ _Forget the demon. He has beguiled you, my son, but I show you now the truth. This is the torment they have laid upon me. Long have I been bound thus; my every moment agony. They have bound me, as you are bound now; only you can free us, my child. See, there, the fate that lies before you._ ”

A movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye; wincing, he turned his head slightly, then gasped.

The thing that shuffled slowly into view reminded him of Larius, but the unkempt wild hair was blond – long, bloodstained, a tangled mess that hung to the revenant's chest. It limped haltingly towards him, the right arm hanging limp and useless, the left leg twisted and dragging slightly. It was dressed in tattered, dishevelled clothing; tatty remains of feathers still adorned one shoulder of the dusty, faded black jacket. The patchwork leather tunic beneath was torn, several patches missing, one side seam ripped apart. The grey robe beneath was stained and filthy.

Slowly it looked up at him, and he cried out in horror as he stared into his own Blighted eyes – or, rather, eye; for the right eye socket was empty, the cheek below ruined with scars, the flesh half-melted. The slack mouth began to work slowly, trying to form words. “Aah...Aaaannn... Annn...”

“No, please, no,” whispered Anders as he stared at himself.

“ _This is the fate of all who share the taint, my child, but I can free you from this burden. Only I can save you from eternal undeath._ ”

 ** _He is not yours._** A flash of blindingly bright blue-white flame; a vaguely humanoid shape of brilliant light, the glowing blue eyes staring directly up at the captive mage. Anders twitched in alarm then cried out as the lyrium chains sliced into his vulnerable flesh, blood running freely from a multitude of lacerations.

Another figure appeared; tall, imposing, the face hawk-like and regal yet somehow familiar. Golden eyes regarded him lovingly from a face framed by long honey-gold hair.

“ _Anders, my son._ ” He raised a hand towards the apostate. “ _Look what they have done to you – my poor, wounded son! And all because of the gift of magic which I bequeathed to you. How they have made you suffer for our birthright._ ” The eyes were saddened, and Anders himself found he was weeping.

“F-Father? But they said you were dead....”

The glorious figure shook his head. “ _Nay, my child. They lied to you. Is that not ever their way? They have bound you in lies as surely as they have bound me in chains. Only here am I free; in truth, every wound you suffer from those chains is a burden and a torment I have endured for so long._ ” He smiled gently. “ _Would you weep for your father, my son? Or would you free him?_ ”

 _ **LIES! HE LIES!**_ screamed Justice. The figure merely smiled; Justice seemed somehow impotent – though he raged, he seemed unable to do anything else. The figure held out both hands to Anders.

“ _Come to me, my beloved one. Free your Father, and together we shall set all mages free._ ” The smile was hypnotic, enchanting. “ _Let me free you from your burdens and pain, even as you shall free me. You are tired, weary; you long to lay down and rest. Let some other take up this burden. Come to me; let me give you surcease from your pain. The endless struggle. The hatred of others, their abuse of you... you have suffered enough, have you not?_ ”

Weeping, Anders shook his head, heedless of the blood running down his body. “No... I won't listen... Father, please, I – I can't do this....”

“ _My child. My poor, tainted, wounded son. Would you truly choose this existence?_ ” The figure gestured to the revenant, which shuffled forward, peering up at him, still trying to speak in that awful, broken voice.

And the lyrium chains abruptly dissolved into glowing ribbons of pure light that held him gently, safely, spreading a warm healing balm wherever they touched. The green light faded into a soft warm glow, and a quiet voice was speaking in gentle soothing tones. He didn't understand the words; it didn't matter. They were spoken in love.

Anders curled up into the warm light and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, far away from the Fade.


	12. Chapter 12

By unspoken agreement, the others left Anders to sleep through until morning. When it was Fenris' turn on watch, Hawke gently slipped into the elf's bedroll to spoon up against Anders, holding him close.

Anders drifted slowly into waking, snuggled against Hawke's side with his head nestled into the side of the warrior's neck. He stirred with a faint sigh, then smiled as Hawke lightly trailed his fingers down the side of his face. His eyes slowly flickered open to regard Hawke dreamily.

“Did I oversleep?” he murmured drowsily, stretching slightly, his spine arching as he pressed himself against Hawke. Then he blinked as memory returned and a shadow stole over his face, and he groaned faintly. “We're still in the Deep Roads,” he sighed.

“I'm afraid so,” Hawke said quietly. “How do you feel?”

“You didn't wake me for my watch,” said Anders with a frown, pushing himself up into a sitting position then winced, wrapping his arms around his thin body as he hunched over a little, rubbing his arms through the thin linen of his shirt.

“Love?” asked Hawke, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

“Just a bit achey,” he replied. He looked down at his wrists and twitched suddenly with a brief, wordless cry as he stared at them.

“Anders, what-”

“Nothing, it's nothing,” said Anders hastily as he reached for his tunic and jacket and thrust himself up to his feet. He tugged on the tunic then hurriedly pulled on the jacket, walking away with his head lowered as he tugged at the bandages and leather bracer, tightening them over his wrists.

He didn't want anyone to see what lay beneath; the thin red lines where the lyrium chains had bound him in the Fade.

It wasn't just a dream. He had feared as much, but the physical evidence proved it. He wasn't safe; not even in sleep. Corypheus had found him through the Fade. He should have known it was possible, but....

Why hadn't Justice protected him? He didn't understand it. The spirit had seemed somehow bound itself. He stopped, resting a hand against a nearby wall as he reached within.

 _Justice?_

There was no answer. The Fade spirit was strangely silent, though he got a sense of resentment emanating from it – not directed against him however.

“Anders? Are you alright?” Carver regarded him warily as he approached.

“What? Oh. Fine. I'm fine,” snapped Anders tersely. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Well-”

Anders brushed past him. “I'm perfectly fine,” he growled as he walked back to the camp. He snatched up his bedroll and hastily stuffed it into his backpack before slinging it and his staff onto his back. He paused and glanced round, aware of the others' eyes upon him.

“What, did I grow an extra head during the night or something?” he tried to joke.

“We're just worried about you, love,” said Hawke quietly.

“That's good; I'm worried about me too,” replied Anders, smiling thinly. “Let's get this over with whilst I still have a mind to lose, hmm?”

 

They continued down through the level until they found themselves in the labyrinth of passages at the bottom of the pit, near the base of the tower. The area seemed to be infested with deepstalkers; the small scurrying things by themselves were more a nuisance than an actual threat, but in sufficient numbers they were troublesome. After a while of working their way through the passages, they came upon the remains of a dwarf. Varric stared down at the corpse and frowned.

“That looks like Legion of the Dead armour,” he said in faint surprise. “It's an Orzamaar thing. No matter your crime if you join the Legion and vow to die fighting darkspawn, your name is cleared.”

Anders stared down at the corpse. “I had a friend from the Legion once. A girl named Sigrun. Not nearly as dour as you'd expect.”

“What's this?” said Varric, reaching down and plucking an old, folded piece of parchment from a fold of the corpse's cloak. He unfolded it and scanned it. “The Legion of the Dead... sent after Paragon Garen's heir. Why does that sound familiar?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully with a gloved finger. “I think Garen was sometime in the early Exalted Age. Hundreds of years ago.”

“Do you think they found him?” wondered Hawke.

“Who knows?” shrugged Varric. They stared down at the body in silence, then shaking his head slowly, Varric turned away, deep in thought, and they followed him on.

After a while, Varric suddenly snapped his fingers. “That's where I know the name! Tethras Garen should have been the heir to the Garen clan. But he was accused of killing his sister and sent into the Deep Roads to die. When the real murderer was caught, they tried to find him. They never could. Instead, every Garen heir from that time on took the name Tethras in his honour.” He ran a hand over his chin, frowning. “One of them became Paragon in his own right and founded my clan.”

“So this was one of your ancestors?” asked Hawke.

“Not directly,” Varric shrugged uncomfortably, “But... a little closer than I like to come to my past, you know.” He stared down at the ground then still frowning, started to walk on.

“Varric, look out!” warned Anders, his head suddenly snapping up as his eyes narrowed.

“I see 'em, Blondie,” Varric nodded as a group of darkspawn suddenly lurched out from behind a pile of rocks. He unslung Bianca, face grim, and started picking the creatures off as Anders started encasing them in ice whilst Carver, Fenris and Hawke ran forward to engage the enemy in melee. Varric eyed the nearby detritus of fallen walls and rubble, muttering, “I hope nothing's going to jump out of that stuff.” He paused to reload as Anders turned and aimed an ice blast at a hurlock that had leapt out behind Carver.

“Hey, how about some sympathy for the one who's closest to the ground here?” cried Varric as three hurlocks leapt out from behind a fallen wall. Anders spun round, brandishing his staff, his eyes blazing with fire. “ ** _Down, dwarf!_** ”

Varric didn't need to be told twice. He hit the floor as a fan of white flame shot out from Anders' spread hand, incinerating the creatures. “Nice one, Justice!” he called back.

The mage stared and gave him a single nod before diving into the fray.

“Nice to know he's on our side,” Varric remarked to himself. “You can still tell friend from foe Blondie; I'd say you're doing just fine.” He blasted at a genlock that looked his way; it was obliterated in one shot. “Bianca, you _minx_ , that was beautiful!” he crowed. He planted a big kiss on the smooth carved wood of the crossbow's stock and looked around for another target.

As they gathered together after the last creature had fallen, Varric eyed the mage carefully, but Anders' eyes had returned to their normal shade of brown. He nodded approvingly. “Doing good, Blondie,” he said quietly. “We'll get out of this mess just fine, you'll see.”

Anders nodded. He stared down at the ground as his next footstep squelched in something that wasn't, for once, blood or a dead darkspawn. “Ugh. This is much... wetter... than I remember the Deep Roads being. What is this, some sort of swamp down here?”

Carver pulled a face as he stared into a pool of stagnant water. “It smells pretty much the way I'd expect a swamp in the Deep Roads to smell. You know. If the Deep Roads had swamps. Which this one obviously does.”

“Merrill's not here, Carver; you can stop babbling,” remarked Hawke drily. Carver shot him a look and looked as though he were about to retort, then thought better of it.

Varric, Fenris and Anders were staring at the stone walls that rose ahead of them, lit by the strange glowing moss that clustered here and there about the caverns and the glowing veins of lyrium visible in places, weaving through the stone walls.

“What are those structures?” wondered Anders, leaning on his staff as he stared up at them. “They're not dwarven, are they?”

“Not any work I've ever seen,” replied Varric. He eyed the lyrium veins. “How are those making you feel, Blondie?” he asked curiously.

“Distracting,” Anders replied. “A bit like the darkspawn, only... different.”

Fenris glanced at him. “Do they pose a danger to you or us?”

“Only if you try licking them,” he said with a faint smile. “I wouldn't particularly recommend it. Raw lyrium burns.” He shuddered suddenly.

“You've been... burned by it before?” asked Fenris.

“In a manner of speaking,” replied Anders quietly, staring down at his hand upon the staff as the other hand crept up to rub uneasily at his throat. “It's not an experience I'd care to repeat.”

“The stone plaque said they bound Malvernis in lyrium chains with the blood of a hundred warriors,” remarked Varric.

“Painful, I should imagine,” remarked Fenris. He glanced down at his lyrium brands. “I can... almost sympathise.”

 _They have bound you in lies as surely as they have bound me in chains. Only here am I free; in truth, every wound you suffer from those chains is a burden and a torment I have endured for so long...._

“... _Anders?_ Anders?”

He blinked and came back to himself. “You OK, Blondie?” asked Varric, frowning.

Anders shook himself. “Just lost in thought,” he replied. “I'm trying to imagine the kind of sheer raw power needed for blood magic like that. It's... unnerving.”

“Seductive, I should imagine,” replied Fenris, eyeing him thoughtfully. Anders shuddered.

“Not to me,” he said firmly.

Varric stared up at the silvery-green glow of the lyrium veins that twinkled enticingly through the gloom. “That much lyrium could go to a man's head.”

“Indeed,” replied Fenris. “It would be hard to resist such a temptation, for one desirous of power.” He glanced at Anders thoughtfully.

“You still don't trust me?” Anders' voice sounded small and hurt, his brown eyes wounded.

“You, I trust, beloved,” the elf replied gently, “The spirit inside you?” He shook his head, reaching out to lay a hand gently over the white hand that still rested against Anders' throat. “I fear for you, _mi Amatus_ ,” he added gently.

“I can-” began Anders heatedly.

“- Control it?” finished Fenris for him, raising an eyebrow. Anders fell silent and glanced away.

“I know you think I'm weak,” he said slowly.

“Beloved-” began Fenris; Anders pulled his hand away and raised it, forestalling him.

“Let me finish,” he said quietly, looking back at him. “Compared to you, to Hawke, to Carver – yes, I seem weak. You are all warriors; battle-hardened, strong. But I'm not a child or some sick weakling, an invalid. I'm just a man, Fenris. An ordinary human. My magic sets me above other men, perhaps, but without my magic I don't suddenly become less than a man.” He frowned at the elf, who stood silent, thoughtful. “Don't you see? I'm not weak. I just seem it when compared to the rest of you – but any other man in Thedas would seem the same.” He stepped closer. “But mentally? Fenris, you have _no idea_ of the discipline I am capable of. I was raised in the Circle. I faced _and survived_ my Harrowing. Don't you understand what that means?”

Fenris shook his head slowly. “I... am not familiar with the ways of mages,” he said slowly. “In Tevinter, my...master – Danarius – he was already an accomplished mage. I was not privy to the... methods he used to train his apprentices.”

“When they deemed I was ready, they took me to a room in the Tower,” said Anders slowly. “I was fifteen. The senior mages summoned a demon, and I was made to drink lyrium. Then I faced the demon in the Fade.” He stared steadily into Fenris' eyes. “Alone.”

“You faced...?”

“I had to defeat it,” he explained quietly. “If I had fallen to it, or the templars thought I was taking too long, they would have killed me on the spot.” He shrugged and smiled slightly. “I'm still alive. That should tell you something. And I've been joined with Justice for nearly five years now without losing my sanity. Which should tell you something else.”

He turned and started to walk back towards Hawke, but looked back over his shoulder at Fenris. “You may be stronger than I physically, love. But up here?” He tapped his temple slowly. “I stand a better chance than any of you.” His face hardened. “I am not weak.” He turned and glared at Carver, who was staring at him. “Or a coward,” he spat.

He strode slowly away towards Hawke. After a little while, the others followed him silently.


	13. Chapter 13

The strange buildings seemed to be infested with giant spiders and deepstalkers, which seemed intent on preying upon each other – but weren't adverse to switching to two-legged prey when it presented itself. Disturbingly, it seemed even giant spiders weren't immune to the taint; Anders and Carver found they could sense corruption in some of the unpleasant arachnids, which made fighting them all the more fraught with danger for the non-Warden members of the party. Anders spent time after each clash to carefully check Fenris, Hawke and Varric over for any traces of the Blight in addition to healing their various small wounds.

“I begin to see now why you find the Deep Roads so tiresome,” remarked Fenris as Anders healed a long scratch down his face, then closed his eyes as he sent his senses probing slowly through the elf's blood, seeking out and thankfully finding no trace of the taint. The mage merely opened his eyes and regarded him silently before pulling away.

“You're clear,” he said simply, turning away to Hawke.

They moved on in silence, alert to any danger as they passed between the buildings, drawing closer to the keep.

“Wait... what's that?” said Carver suddenly, turning to investigate what at first looked like just another pile of bones. Varric drew closer, dropping down to one knee as he reached out to touch the crumbling, rusty armour, fingers tracing over the corroded remains of insignia on the breastplate and belt.

“Varric?” asked Hawke after long minutes of silence as Varric bent over the bones, head lowered. Slowly he lifted his head and held out a hand over the remains.

“Atrast tunsha,” he murmured quietly. “Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc.” He covered his face with his hand and drew a shuddering breath, then slowly rose to his feet and turned away, head lowered.

“Varric?” said Anders gently.

“Tethras Garen,” the dwarf said softly. Anders laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I'm so sorry,” he said quietly. After a moment, Varric nodded and walked on.

“What did those words mean?” asked Carver.

“Dwarven ritual for the dead,” answered Anders, his voice hushed. “To send his spirit back to the Stone.”

“How do you...” began Carver, tailing off as Anders looked at him. He shook his head. “Never mind me. Forget I asked.”

Anders nodded and followed the dwarf.

 

They'd just finished wading through yet another group of darkspawn when a pained expression crossed Anders' face and he groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead as he gritted his teeth. “Stop! Just make him stop talking! Make him stop!” he cried.

“It's Corypheus,” said Carver, darting a worried glance at the mage. “He can hear Corypheus!”

Anders took a few more steps, then suddenly shuddered and doubled over with a scream, clutching his head. Hawke turned, a look of alarm on his face.

“What's wrong?” he asked as Anders staggered, clutching his head.

“I can't... the voices...” said Anders weakly, pressing his hands against his forehead. “W-wardens... the Joining...” He fell heavily to his knees, pressing a palm to his forehead as his face contorted in pain, blanched white. “I have too much taint in my blood. I can't shut him out.” Blindly, he reached a shaking hand towards Hawke. “Help me, love...” he whispered weakly.

Hawke fell to his knees and reached out for Anders as Fenris hovered over his shoulder, staring down at the tortured mage with an intense look in his green eyes.

“I...will not...” Anders shuddered violently then suddenly lurched upright, eyes wide open and blazing with blue-white fire as his whole body was suddenly covered in a coruscating lacework of brilliant energies.

“ ** _Be controlled!_** ” growled Justice, glaring at them with alien eyes.

Hawke leapt to his feet and moved back as Fenris laid a hand on his blade with a muttered “Venhedis!”

“We can't take you anywhere, Blondie,” groaned Varric.

“Let it go, love,” said Hawke. “There's a better way to fight him.”

Justice stared at him without recognition, then reached for the staff slung on his back. Slamming the point down into the ground at his feet with a concussive blast of energy, he rose slowly to confront them, staff ready, as two strange shadowy shapes slowly coalesced into corporeal shape behind him. Justice glared at them defiantly, lightning dancing across his outstretched hand.

Fenris leapt straight for the mage as Justice gestured and a blast of lightning knocked Hawke backwards several feet, sending him sprawling. Varric began firing bolts at the creature on the right as Carver leapt for the shadowy beast on the left with a yell.

Fenris ignored them as he concentrated on Justice. His greatsword whistled through the air towards the mage; at the last moment he twisted the blade in midair so the flat of the blade struck Justice solidly in the ribs as he raised his hand to unleash another spell. There was a sickening crack of breaking ribs as the mage staggered to one side; swinging the staff around, Justice unleashed a blast of fire at the elf, who ducked and rolled away. Justice was silent as he gestured at the elf with his hand and Fenris bit back a cry as the lightning bolt struck his chest; he fell to one knee, gritting his teeth against the agonising pain as the energy streaked through his limbs. He phased into intangibility as he leapt forward, Justice's next blast passing harmlessly through him to strike Carver, who collapsed wordlessly as Hawke threw himself forward.

Fenris didn't dare spare a glance for the warrior as he concentrated upon Justice. He was vaguely aware of the shadow beast to his right collapsing and fading in a cloud of sulpherous-smelling smoke as Hawke turned his attentions to the other beast; Bianca sang as three bolts thudded into Justice at shoulder, hip and thigh. Fenris however only had eyes for Justice as he thrust his gauntleted hand into the mage's chest and poured his power into the slender body as his taloned fingers closed around Anders' heart.

Justice threw his head back in a silent scream as his whole body stiffened, the staff falling from nerveless fingers. Slowly the inhuman eyes rolled back into his head and he crumpled backwards to the ground.

Fenris stood over the fallen mage, staring down at him as his chest heaved for breath. He swallowed, throat suddenly thick as he looked down into Anders' unconscious face. A faint trickle of blood was slowly winding its way from one nostril and down the apostate's pale face.

“Is he...” whispered Hawke as he stepped up next to Fenris, Carver limping over to join them.

“He lives,” said Fenris quietly as Anders' chest stirred.

“Oh Blondie,” said Varric sadly, shaking his head.

Anders stirred and groaned. Pressing his hand to his ribs, he rolled over onto his side and slowly pushed himself up onto his elbow. “Thank you, love,” he murmured, opening his eyes slowly and looking up at Fenris.

The elf reached down and helped Anders to his feet. The mage grimaced as the broken ends of his ribs ground together. “I.. I guess they're right,” he said weakly as he hung his head. “You never can leave the Wardens.” He slowly raised his head, his eyes lifting to Hawke. “I hope I can hold against him. Against them both....”

“I'm not losing you to this,” replied Hawke. “I refuse.”

“Let's just try not to do that again,” replied Varric. “Bianca hates being turned against her friends.” Anders nodded, then reeled, slumping against Fenris, lifting his trembling hand from his ribs to clutch at the feathered bolt protruding from his shoulder. The elf gently laid him down as Hawke and Carver knelt beside him. Hawke reached for the crossbow bolt in the mage's shoulder as Carver took a firm hold of the one embedded in his hip; Hawke stared into Anders' eyes, and the mage slowly nodded, gritting his teeth. Hawke and Carver braced themselves then yanked out the bolts in unison; Anders uttered a muffled scream as his body arched in Fenris' arms, then he slumped against the elf, panting raggedly. Carver laid his hand on the remaining bolt in Anders' thigh.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

“Just get it out,” muttered Anders. Varric stripped off a leather glove; Anders willingly took it between his teeth and biting down. He nodded to Carver, who wrenched out the bolt in one smooth motion. Anders threw his head back with another muffled scream and clutched at his leg as blood ran freely over his thigh.

“Give him some lyrium,” suggested Varric, pulling out a small vial. Anders shook his head and spat out the glove.

“Don't need it. Don't want it,” he muttered. He closed his eyes as he healed himself. They watched in silence; Fenris bent down and gently kissed the mage's brow as the wounds slowly ceased bleeding then closed. Anders' hand fell away from his thigh limply.

“We must stop meeting like this,” remarked Fenris with a faint suggestion of a smirk. Anders opened one eye and snorted.

“I now have a great deal of sympathy for pincushions,” he replied.

“What exactly happened there?” asked Carver. “I thought Justice was on our side?”

“Justice... was being controlled by Corypheus,” Anders replied grimly.

“Can you fight them both off?” asked Hawke, brow furrowing in concern.

“I have to,” replied Anders. “I have no choice.”

“How many more seals are there?” asked Varric. Hawke shrugged.

“No idea.”

“Is there anything we can do to help you fight them off?” asked Carver. “Corypheus is bound with lyrium, isn't he? And spirits like lyrium...”

“I can't down lyrium potions indefinitely,” replied Anders. “I'd risk lyrium poisoning. But... it's worth a try, in moderation.” He shrugged. “Anything's worth a try right now.”

 

The strange buildings gave way to the more familiar dwarven architecture of the inner keep. They stared around themselves warily as they made their way inwards towards the centre. They paused at the threshold of the innermost room where the next seal awaited them. Hawke glanced around at the others.

“Ready?” he asked, and was met with nods of grim determination. “Right. Let's take the guardians down as quick as we can.”

The battle was fierce, but short. As the last guardian fell, Hawke approached the seal as the others gathered round. Fenris and Varric stood beside Anders, who uncorked a lyrium vial. As he held the glass vial up, eyeing the faintly glowing blue liquid, he glanced to Fenris.

“If this doesn't work, you'll have to take me down fast,” he warned him quietly. Fenris nodded grimly and placed a hand upon Anders' breast. The mage took a deep breath then downed the bitter liquid in one. He nodded to Hawke, who drew his father's blade.

Brilliant crimson light enveloped Hawke and the blade in a blinding flash of energy, the blade throwing off sparks and flares of light as it absorbed the energies of the seal. Slowly the bright light faded, and the crimson glow of the sword disappated until the metal was cold and dark once more. Hawke glanced over at the mage.

Anders stood with his eyes closed for a little while, frowning. He bowed his head, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He shook his head briefly, then looked up.

“I'm... alright,” he replied in answer to their silently questioning stares. There were audible sighs of relief as they relaxed.

“OK then, let's go,” smiled Hawke.

They filed out of the room and walked towards the stairs to the next level but paused as the tower began to tremble, the floor heaving as a deep rumble filled the air, rubble and stones falling in a shower of dust as the companions stumbled to keep their footing.

“He feels the seals weaken. He knows you are close. You must be ready,” warned Larius as he limped towards them, skirting around fallen blocks of stone. “What's that?” he said suddenly, glancing behind at the stairs. “Who? No... no. They are here!”

“Who is 'they'?” asked Hawke. “The Carta?”

“No, worse,” replied the old Warden, scowling. “More treacherous, more dangerous.” His scowl deepened. “The Wardens. They listen to Corypheus. They want to bring him the light.”

The companions glanced at each other as Larius began to back away. “Stop them. You _must_ stop them,” he warned.

Even as he fled into the shadows, they could hear voices; human voices, accompanied by the sounds of armour.

“Something's happening,” a woman's voice said, and a moment later a group of four wardens appeared walking down the stairs. The speaker appeared to be a mage; she was talking to a male warrior who nodded as they trudged down the stairs. “The prison's breaking down,” she continued. “But it's stood up to tunnelling before. What can -”

She broke off as they spotted the companions. She stared at Hawke, her eyes widening. “You! You have the key!” she exclaimed. “And you've come through the seals. But how?” The Grey Wardens drew closer, and recognition dawned in the dark-haired mage's green eyes. “Wait – you're Hawke! Stroud told me you met in the Deep Roads. Are you the same one? The child of Malcolm? The Carta said they were close. You must be him.” She drew herself up straight. “I am Janeka. I lead this unit of Grey Wardens.”

“Senior Warden,” said Carver in a respectful tone, stepping forward even as Anders hung back behind Hawke. “Why are you interested in my father?”

“Then you don't know?” said Janeka, surprised. “Without Malcolm, this prison would have fallen thirty years ago.”

“Tell me what my father did,” demanded Hawke.

“The Grey Wardens built this prison to contain one of the most powerful darkspawn we've ever encountered,” answered Janeka as she paced slowly in front of them. “But even the best magic fades. The Wardens need to reinforce the seals.” She turned and paced back. “This requires the blood of a mage untainted by... Warden training,” she explained slowly. “The last to perform the ritual was your father.”

Hawke scowled. “My father was a blood mage??” he exclaimed disbelievingly.

Janeka glanced back over her shoulder. “To avert the Blights, forbidden magics are sometimes necessary,” she answered. Behind Hawke, Anders made a faint strangled sound in the back of his throat. Hawke shook his head as Carver answered, “For us, maybe. Our father knew better.”

“He did not bind the demons, if that is your concern,” Janeka said dismissively. “That was done in another era, before the Chantry laws.”

“So that's why the Carta came after us,” replied Hawke, narrowing his eyes at the Warden mage.

“We need your help, Hawke,” she said coolly. “I have done extensive research on this darkspawn and I believe the original Wardens were wrong.” She turned back, her expression grave yet earnest. “He isn't a threat to humanity – he's our greatest opportunity. A darkspawn who can talk, feel, reason....”

“Corypheus cares nothing for Blights,” growled Larius, emerging from the shadows. “He used you!”

“The Warden Commander!” exclaimed the silver-haired warrior Grey Warden.

“Don't listen to this... _creature!_ ” sneered Janeka dismissively. “He's half darkspawn himself! I know how to harness Corypheus, use his magic to end the Blights.”

“No!” objected Larius with a negating jerk of his hand. “The Wardens knew. Corypheus is too powerful.”

“Don't do it, Hawke,” Anders urged nervously. “You can't trust a darkspawn to honour any deal.”

“Worth the risk,” shrugged Varric. “If he doesn't help, it's one more big darkspawn to stick a bolt in. No big deal.”

“There are rules to the order,” argued Carver. “And with good reason. Father wouldn't want this.”

“Corypheus calls her, and she listens,” hissed Larius, his Blighted eyes narrowed as he turned to Hawke. “She brought him the Carta, sent them for you.”

“Stroud wouldn't let me have your brother,” Janeka shrugged, as Carver's eyes widened in shock, “I need you!”

Hawke frowned at Janeka. “Why would this darkspawn want to end the Blights?” he demanded aggressively, stepping closer to the Warden mage, aware how intimidating his greater height seemed.

Janeka stood her ground. “He is no mindless monster,” she replied. “This search for the Old Gods comes at a terrible cost to his people.”

“This sounds very familiar,” Anders said, shaking his head.

“He tricked you!” protested Larius to Janeka. “These are not your thoughts; they are his Calling.”

Janeka glared at him. “How many of them died in Ferelden alone?” she threw back at him. “And that was the least of the Blights!”

“But how can you trust any deal this darkspawn makes with you?” asked Hawke, shaking his head.

“Do not think me foolish, Hawke,” replied Janeka, holding up a hand. “I am making no deal. I have a spell which can control Corypheus, bind him to my will.” She smiled grimly. “He will be a new, important weapon in the war on the Blights. No more, no less.”

“You're talking blood magic again,” said Hawke darkly.

“Everything that was done to him was through the power of blood,” answered Janeka. “The Wardens imprisoned Corypheus before the Chantry banned such magic. It is the only way to hold him.”

“You're not helping the case for releasing him,” observed Carver, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Hawke, who folded his arms and stared at Janeka grimly.

“Corypheus may be as great a threat as the next Blight,” Hawke stated flatly. “We can't risk freeing him.”

Janeka glared hostilely at the brothers. “We'll find a way to do this with or without you, Hawke,” she spat. “This prison _will_ be broken. The Blights _will_ end!” She backed away steadily, unslinging her grey staff as she looked to the other Wardens. “Come!” A ball of fire coalesced in her open palm even as Anders whirled and brought his own staff to bear, the words of a shielding spell already upon his lips as Fenris and Varric unslung their weapons. Hawke glared grimly at the Wardens as he and Carver moved forward as one.

“With me!” cried Larius as Janeka's fireball burst harmlessly across Anders' shield. “We will beat them to the seal!”

With a last glance back at the Wardens as they fled back up the stairs, Hawke nodded grimly.

The race was on.


	14. Chapter 14

“This... this was part of the prison's defences from centuries ago,” Larius said quietly, gesturing at strange sigils carved at certain places on the walls – glyphs and runes that not even Anders recognised. “Old magic, unstable, dangerous. The Wardens had them neutralised.”

Hawke nodded as they continued up the stairs; venturing out onto one of the broken bridges which spanned the gap between the central tower of the keep and the surrounding infrastucture, his eyes narrowed as a flash of light caught his attention. Over on one of the galleries on the other side of the chasm, Janeka's party of Wardens were fighting off a group of darkspawn.

“If Larius is right about Corypheus, we're going to have to hurry,” Anders reminded him. Hawke nodded once, the turned to glance at the mage.

“How are you holding up?” he asked quietly.

“I'm holding,” replied Anders evenly. “If that changes, you'll be the first to know.”

As they made their way up into the next room of the keep, Larius raised a hand. “Do not touch anything! The old defences are active again. Very unpredictable, very dangerous.” He turned to be sure they all understood; Anders readied his staff in his hand and nodded. He had caught the rippling tingle of old magics coming back to life from deep within himself; he knew from the momentary flare of lyrium light - and the answering singing in his own blood that called to him – that Fenris had felt and reacted to it too.

A group of dwarves suddenly burst into the room – the first ones they had seen thus far with no marks of Blight about them. “There!” cried the leader. “That's the one that Janeka wants dead!”

“Oh wonderful,” remarked Hawke. “You too. You do Janeka's bidding?”

“Janeka shared knowledge of Corypheus with the Carta,” the dwarf replied. “When she releases the Master, we will be rewarded.”

Anders winced at the mention of Corypheus' name; pinching the bridge of his nose briefly, he fought back down the whispering in his mind, quelling it. The lyrium potions couldn't hold Corypheus at bay forever, but he daren't take another so soon. He'd been pushing it with the bittersweet blue liquid as it was; he was already skirting closer than he liked to poisoning himself with the stuff. It was a two-edged blade; it gave, in terms of mana and restoration, but it took so much more in claims upon his health – and he needed all of _that_ he could get if he were to remain useful to the others.

“Turn back, and I'll spare you,” replied Hawke. He somehow doubted the Carta dwarves would go for it, but he had to try.

“There is no turning back!” replied the dwarf, glancing curiously to one side tat a nearby pillar hen back to the warrior. “We may die here, but we will take you with us.”

“No, don't!” exclaimed Larius as the dwarf lashed out at a torch sconce and the whole pillar began to rotate, as did others in the room as a sound of creaking rusty gears set in motion after too long motionless filled the air. Then the pillars fell motionless, and the companions stared about themselves uneasily, wondering what effect the trap's activation had wrought.

“To arms, and pray that Corypheus honours our sacrifice!” roared the dwarf as he and his cohorts flung themselves forward, weapons at the ready.

They wasted no further words but instead took the dwarves down swiftly and mercilessly. As they stared around, Hawke suddenly realised the doors to the chamber appeared to be closed by glowing golden walls of flaming energy that barred their way back. Well, that answered that little question then

“Trapped! Carta fools, always where they shouldn’t be,” grumbled Larius. “This shouldn't have happened!”

“'Don't touch anything' is usually an invitation to touch everything; didn't you know?” teased Hawke.

Larius shook his head. “Always a punishment for playing with things you don't understand,” replied the former Warden. He shook his head with a look of irritation, and it suddenly struck Anders just how much more... _human_ the old Warden seemed, compared to his earlier appearances. He still shuffled with that strange lop-sided gait, but his speech didn't seem quite so idiosyncratic – there was more human emotion in his voice.

 **_Proximity to humans is reminding him of his own humanity._ **

Anders tilted his head on one side; Justice was sounding more himself too. He glanced briefly to one side and noted Fenris lurking nearby, close enough to touch him if the elf had so wished. Ah. Fenris lifted an eyebrow in silent query; Anders gave him a reassuring smile then turned back to concentrate on what Larius was saying.

“There is a way,” he was explaining. “Deep down, a small memory – a fading thought; I've been here before.” He looked around slowly. “Yes, yes.... Think.” He tapped his right temple with a gloved forefinger thoughtfully. “There must be a way. I've been here before, a long time ago.” He turned back to them, his Blighted eyes seeking out Anders. “The magic, it flows in streams. They must be joined for the way to open.”

Anders pushed forward past Hawke and Carver as his eyes flicked to the coruscating amber glow of energies that filled each of the doorways to the room, already reaching out with his senses to assess the magic's flow.

“Anders?” asked Hawke; Varric shushed him with a warning pat on the arm as the mage walked over to each portal in turn, lifting a hand to hover perhaps an inch or two away from the flickering energies as he let his mage's senses sink into the portal, feeling the way the magic flowed.

Then frowning in thought, he made his way from pillar to pillar, examining the iron ring mounted upon each at head height; at first glance they merely appeared to be ornamental torch brackets, but they'd seen the Carta dwarf turn the bracket to trip the trap to begin with. He investigated each one quietly, not touching. Then he made his way back to the first one, nearest the door they had entered.

Slinging his staff onto his back, he reached up with both hands and grasped the ring firmly.

“If I'm right, turning this will draw out the stream of magic from this portal,” he said quietly.

“And if you're wrong?” asked Hawke.

“Flash-fried mage, I'm guessing,” replied Anders with a wry grin. He abruptly tensed his muscles; hHwke leapt forward with a hand outstretched. “No, wait!” he cried, but it was too late; with a grunt of effort, Anders managed to turn the ring through a full ninety degrees, and a glowing bar of energy was drawn out from the centre of the portal to gather and swirl about the ring, flickering and dancing over Anders' fingers upon the iron ring. He gasped faintly at the touch of the energy; it was far different to his own magic – older, more alien, and yet there was something almost familiar to it. He pulled his hands away, shaking them to get the tingling out of his fingers.

“Are you all right?” demanded Hawke.

“Fine – just a little tingly,” replied Anders absently. He turned to glance at the other pillars thoughtfully. “It's like a form of logic puzzle,” he said slowly. “I'm guessing we have to find the right sequence of turns to make the magic form a continuous unbroken line from one portal to the other. Look, see the bottom set of rings has only two torches set at right angles to each other? It flows in through one torch, and I'll wager it flows out through the other.”

“Yes, yes – you have the way of it!” agreed Larius.

Anders walked around the room, studying the other pillars. “Carver, that one there – give the ring two pulls to the left.” As the Warden wordlessly did as he was told, Anders gestured to the next pillar. “Hawke, that one a single turn to the right.”

Hawke nodded and moved to the pillar as Fenris stepped forward towards the next pillar. Anders nodded to him. “Three right.” He glanced back to Carver. “Now that one there – one left.”

They moved around the large room, lining up the pillar rings at Anders' directions. The golden energy slowly streamed across the room until it formed one long continuous stream from one side of the room to the other; and suddenly the energies shifted colour from gold to a grey-silver that crept along the stream until it was completely grey then dissipated.

“It worked!” said Larius, rubbing his hands together and almost smiling. “Quickly now – we still have a ways to go yet!” They followed him out of the room onto the balcony that ran around the outside of the tower at each level. “The Hawke was fascinated by the old construction,” mused Larius as he noticed Hawke staring at the strange ornamentation upon the walls, walking over to look over Anders' shoulder as the mage trailed a hand over the raised bas relief shapes. “Always stopping to examine the carvings. A learned man.” Hawke and Anders exchanged glances.

“You knew my father then? You were here?”

Larius nodded. “Down here for weeks, working together.” He shook his head. “Too much bad magic. Darkness. Untainted he was, and yet I fear we tainted him nonetheless. Not in the blood. The heart. The taint of the heart, so much worse than even I could fear, and yet, and yet....” He stared at Hawke, then shook his head, moving on ahead.

They moved on and up through the tower, disturbing another party of Carta dwarves along the way; by now, dealing with them was becoming almost routine. Larius joined them in battle, the blade of his sword not as tarnished as his armour – whatever the state of his Blighted mind, he was certainly still capable of caring for his blade.

As Hawke pushed open the door to another room on the upper floor, Janeka pushed herself away from the pillar she was lounging against.

“Did you really think those old wards would stop me?” she asked as she took a handful of steps towards them, glaring balefully at Larius. “Look at you! Barely able to string two thoughts together. You've only made it this far because of Hawke.”

“You can still turn away,” Larius urged her. “Do not listen to his voice!”

“You're a fool, Larius,” Janeka sneered. “You should have died here years ago.” Unslinging her staff, she twirled it around to slam the iron-shod point down upon the cracked stones, calling up fiercely crackling energies that licked and danced over her body as she raised the power before unleashing a lightning blast at the undead Warden.

Even as she was drawing upon her magic, Anders was already reaching within, channelling his own defensive magics defensively and calling forth a whirling circle of cool green-blue healing, protective magics. Even as Janeka unleashed her lightning bolt, Anders was gesturing and the companions and Larius were suffused by the gentle blue wash of spirit healing that bathed them in protective light, dissipating the blast harmlessly.

Janeka's eyes widened in outrage even as Anders straightened and mockingly saluted her, twirling his staff with a not-strictly-necessary flourish and a grin. It had been far too long since he found himself in magical combat against someone near his level. It was exhilarating, though he mentally cautioned himself against getting too cocky or enjoying it too much. They were here for a reason, after all.

The smile slipped a little as Janeka called up a revenant that narrowed its eyes as it glared at the group. “Now you're just getting spiteful,” he murmured as four emissaries stepped out of the shadows to join it. He was still keeping up the healing shield, his mind caught up as much in the feeling of blood pulsing through the bodies of his companions, the breath in their lungs, the beating of their hearts, the surge of adrenaline through their bodies as they readied for combat and moved to engage the emissaries as it was in awareness of Janeka and the revenant. She knew as well as he that as long as he was protecting his companions like this that he was unable to cast any of his usual repertoire of damaging spells – he was, in effect, helpless, surrendering his ability to defend or go on the offence in favour of protecting and healing his friends.

What she wasn't aware of was the presence of Justice within him – or his own not inconsiderable powers of endurance, tempered and strengthened by his Grey Warden training. Janeka was a Grey Warden too – but she didn't spend nearly every waking moment healing others and pushing her own endurance and reserve levels on a daily basis. He knew exactly where his limits lay... and just how far past them he could push himself. He smiled grimly as he raised a defensive shield against her onslaught, not dropping the healing aura that bathed his companions in its radiance.

The revenant moved to strike against him, but suddenly Fenris was at his side, sword slashing, the elf a glowing, deadly graceful lyrium ghost, talons shredding the revenant's very essence as much as its physical form. Anders was so completely attuned to the forms of his companions that he was already extending his healing powers and healing the elf's wounds almost exactly as the revenant dealt them, the skin healing unscathed behind the path of the cuts and lacerations of the creature's raking talons.

 _Varric._ He didn't know if the internal voice was his own or that of Justice, but already he was reaching to heal the burn that rolled up across the dwarf's right arm and shoulder, scorching the side of his neck and face even as Varric cried out, “I could use a little hand over here!”

One emissary had already fallen, behind and to Anders' left; he was aware of attacks from the one behind and to his right ceasing as Carver sprinted past him to join the dwarf even as Hawke dealt the final blow to the one immediately to his left. Varric wasn't faring too well, but with Carver backing him up the battle soon started to go their way.

Larius was more than holding his own against the creatures; to Anders' surprise, even as far gone to the taint as the former Warden Commander was, the mage's healing could still affect him, closing wounds – it was almost as though the taint within his blood were somehow embracing the healing magic, taking it in and restoring the old body, though Anders could feel that some damage was old, untreatable – the near-crippling break in the head of one femur that had healed incompletely but would never heal straight, the worn rough surfaces of Larius' joints where the bone's surface had worn away through sheer length of use, making the old joints swollen and painful.

Anders was astounded at the amount of lingering pain that Larius must endure on a daily basis, with no prospect of it ever ending or easing until death would finally claim him – and yet still the former Warden fought on as skilfully as any of them. The apostate regarded him with new eyes; Larius must have been a formidable warrior in his prime, before the Calling steadily reduced him to this shambling creature. It made the whole prospect of what had happened to him all the more horrifying.

Anders turned his attention back to matters at hand, narrowing his eyes at Janeka as she slowly withdrew even as the revenant advanced towards the mage.

“Leaving so soon, Janeka?” he called, his voice ringing out high and clear above the noise of the melee. She turned and fled as he span his staff to block the revenant's blow; he may not be able to cast offensive spells whilst engaged in projecting the healing aura, but that didn't mean he was completely helpless. Certainly not with Fenris by his side.

As the revenant fell, Anders didn't need to ask if anyone needed healing; he could already feel their wounds and hurts, like ghost pain overlaid upon his own body. Holding his staff upright in both hands, the point grounded upon the stones as he centred himself, he gently reached out through the magic to close their wounds and relieve their pain. Faint sighs of relief surrounded him as he opened his eyes again.

“Janeka's gone,” he told them. “We'd best follow after.”

Hawke nodded, and gestured to Larius to precede him. He blinked in surprise as Anders moved up to walk alongside the old Warden rather than lingering back behind the two brothers. He exchanged a glance with Fenris who shrugged and swung into step behind Carver, alongside Varric who was scowling at the stock of Bianca, who hadn't been the recipient of Anders' healing spell and was looking a little singed around the barrel and trigger mechanism.

“My thanks for your healing, young one,” said Larius quietly.

“It was the least I could do,” replied Anders quietly. “I'm only sorry I can't do more for you.”

“Do not concern yourself over my old bones,” the old Warden smiled briefly. “After so long, I am used to its protests and aches.”

“You still feel pain then?” asked Anders curiously. “Forgive me – I've never met a Warden after their Calling before.”

“Yes, yes,” the Warden nodded. “I can still feel pain. And hope, and fear. All the human emotions and senses; they are not denied to me, even though I am dead.”

“That's...” Anders shook his head. “That's horrific. How do you....”

Larius shrugged. “It is all I have known since before you were born, youngling,” he replied, regarding the mage enigmatically with his milky-white Blighted eyes. “Do not trouble yourself over my fate. Your own Calling is far off yet; you hear his voice but the taint....” Larius shook his head. “There is more of the taint in your blood than in his -” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Carver, “but still, the Deep Roads shall not claim you yet.” He shook his head and limped on ahead. “Not yet... not yet... but still he calls, he calls, never still, never silent....”

Anders shivered, dropping back slightly to walk beside Carver.

“Well, that was comforting,” remarked Carver dryly.

“In a way, it is,” replied Anders absently. “At least now we know the worst that can happen.”

“And that comforts you?” exclaimed Carver in surprise. Anders merely grinned unpleasantly.

“There are much worse fates out there, Carver. Tranquility for one. I'd sooner embrace Larius' fate than let a templar do _that_ to me.”

“Not something I've ever had to worry about for myself,” replied Carver.

“No,I don't suppose you have,” replied Anders. “It's hard to empathise with someone's loss when you haven't got anything to lose, isn't it?”

Head lowered, Anders strode on a little ahead, a couple of paces behind Larius. Carver watched him go, and this time it was the young Warden's turn to shiver.

“I don't know what you see in him, Garrett,” he muttered to his brother. “Not exactly cheery company, is he?”

“He has his moments,” replied Hawke with a fond smile.

 

They followed Larius out through a side passage, emerging into what appeared to be a different part of the Vinmark Chasm, near the top of the cliffs. Stone ramparts to their left walled off a sheer drop of a good two hundred feet or more down to the stone floor of the chasm below, by the base of a tower. As Larius guided them towards a narrow stone bridge that spanned the gulf between the cliff wall and the top chamber of the tower, Varric glanced around.

“Oh, that's nice,” he said appreciatively.

“What's so nice about it?” asked Hawke.

“Oh, I was just wondering what someplace sinister and foreboding would look like,” replied Varric affably. “Y'know – for inspirational purposes. And look, here it is.”

Hawke regarded him with amusement. “You're working out how to write this in your head, aren't you?”

“Always, Hawke – always.”

Hawke grinned and shook his head, then moved to take the lead, striding out onto the ancient stones of the bridge.

The top chamber of the tower appeared to be one vast chamber, the round dais of the final seal in the exact centre. Large statues of guardian griffons stood at the compass points by small balconied alcoves off the main chamber at the compass points. The chamber was lit by flickering torches that stood around the seal, casting dancing shadows around the vast room. The chamber appeared empty, deserted – but then one of the shadows moved, and Janeka stepped out of the shadows with a cold smile.

“You're too late, Larius,” she said.


	15. Chapter 15

Janeka moved to block their path as the rest of her unit of Wardens moved to array themselves behind her.

“Hand over Hawke, and I'll give you a quick death,” she promised them. Anders felt his lip curl in a snarl; from the faint growl that came from Fenris, he suspected the elf's expression mirrored his own. Carver stepped protectively forward in front of his brother even as Larius straightened and took a step towards Janeka.

“Hawke has already made his choice,” Larius growled. “The right one.”

“The right choice... or the only one?” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “Malcolm Hawke was not allowed to disagree.”

“It is the past; it doesn't matter!” snapped back the old commander. Hawke eyed him curiously.

“Larius, what does Janeka mean by 'not allowed'?” he asked quietly.

“How does she know this?” asked Larius, perplexed. “Alec, did you tell her?” he snapped, glaring at the silver-haired warrior behind Janeka to her left, who looked abashed. “Malcolm Hawke was reluctant, had to be … persuaded. I was Warden-Commander. It was my duty,” explained Larius as he limped over to the side of the stone bridge and stared off into the distance. “I delivered an ultimatum,” he said softly, turning to stare at Hawke. “Help us, or you'll never see her again.”

“Andraste's tits!” swore Carver. “You did _what?_ ”

“You were going to kill our mother?” growled Hawke.

“No – never!” cried Larius, limping towards Hawke. “He came with us. I never had to decide her fate. She was never told about what happened between Malcolm and I.”

“That doesn't excuse it!” cried Carver.

“You see, Hawke,” interjected Janeka. “How can you trust anything Larius says?”

“Larius' threats were reprehensible...but he's still right about Corypheus,” replied Hawke steadily.

Janeka glared at him. “You can come willingly or not, Hawke,” she replied, one hand straying towards the staff slung on her back; Anders found himself automatically mimicing her movements, his own staff coming readily to hand as he gathered his mana, a spell already upon his lips even as Janeka's hand began to gesture. “I just need your blood!” she stated flatly as the other Wardens drew their weapons.

The two mages cast their spells simultaneously, Janeka's fireball screaming towards them only to burst harmlessly over the shield Anders threw up before them; he dropped it a moment later to follow through with an ice blast as Fenris and Carver sprang forward to join the Wardens in hand-to-hand combat.

Larius made straight for Janeka; as Anders held her imprisoned with his power, Larius tore into her; she fell before his onslaught with a terrified scream. Anders glanced away as her scream tailed off into wet choking sounds then fell silent. He let the spell go; Janeka would never move again. He felt little sympathy for her; she had dallied with blood magic. Indeed, she had probably gotten off lightly. Shaking his head, he followed Hawke into the main chamber where the other Wardens had swiftly fallen to Varric's crossbow and the combined might of Carver and Fenris. Fenris was wiping blood from his greatsword with a rag as they entered.

“Are you alright?” he asked Anders quietly as the mage crossed to stand next to him.

“The blood mage is dead,” he replied flatly.

“Well...good?” replied Fenris hesitantly. Anders glanced at him, then looked away with a single nod.

“Yes,” he replied simply. Suddenly they all staggered as the floor of the chamber seemed to lurch beneath them, the torches surrounding the seal suddenly blazing into brilliant life.

“He stirs!” cried Larius, a note of urgency in his cracked voice. “Slay him now, before he wakes – before his strength comes!”

Anders reeled as Corypheus' voice seemed to fill his head, louder and more insistent than ever before. “The key... must bring... the key....” he moaned, clutching at his head. He was dimly aware of Fenris' hands clutching his shoulders, pressing the smooth cold rim of a lyrium bottle against his lips.

“No... you're not my father... I won't listen!” cried Anders angrily. Fenris forced the neck of the bottle past his teeth and tipped the contents into Anders' mouth. Anders gulped it down convulsively, shuddering at the thick, cloying, bittersweet taste. He could feel the instant rush of power within his slender frame even as Fenris activated his own powers, lighting up from head to toe, the lyrium within and without singing powerfully to Anders until he could feel a bone-deep resonance that held him in greater thrall than any demon's voice could.

His eyes as they opened were clear and hard as he stared at the seal. He could feel the lyrium burning in his veins and a faint tremor in his hands. “That was possibly not a good idea,” he murmured to Fenris. He lifted a hand and stared; he could practically see the magic dancing across the surface of his skin. He could feel it racing through his veins, quickfire, insistent, demanding release, his heart surging and racing.

“The key, Hawke,” said Larius. “It's not strong enough. Use your blood. Free him and slay him!”

Hawke nodded, looking round at the alcoves off the main chamber. Anders stepped closer and pointed to the strange, flaming disk-like points of energy grasped in the claws of each griffon statue. “Those look like the bind points of the demons in the rooms in the outer keep we dealt with earlier,” he suggested.

Hawke nodded. “You're right. I guess we deal with those first?” He made his way to the first griffon; drawing Malcolm's sword, he struck the glowing nimbus of energy with the blade. It dissipated with a sharp crack and the faint tang of ozone in the air.

“That seems to have weakened the spell,” remarked Carver as the torches around the seal flickered, wavering. Hawke nodded.

“One down, three to go,” he replied, making his way to the next griffon. He destroyed the binding point there the same way as the first.

“I suppose he won't stop coming after us unless we do this,” remarked Carver as they approached the third griffon. Hawke paused and raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“Hell of a time to be having second thoughts, Carver,” he replied.

“Wait... look!” said Anders, his eyes drawn to the glowing trail of light that was snaking back from the first griffon statue towards the seal. As they watched, it faded, a second trail of light that snaked from the second griffon also began to fade. They glanced at each other.

“Anders? What do you think – you're the mage here?” asked Hawke.

Anders shook his head. “This is... this is nothing like anything they taught us in the Circle. This is blood magic – but it's also something older. At a guess, I'd say each of the binding seals is giving up its energies back to the main seal.” He shrugged. “I'm sorry; I'm out of my depth here. I'm a healer.”

“So...?” said carver, his voice trailing off expectantly.

“We keep going,” decided Hawke, striding towards the third binding seal. As Hawke struck it with Malcolm's sword, Varric glanced around.

“You feel that?” he said uneasily. “It's like... something is lifting.” As Hawke made his way to the fourth and last binding seal, the dwarf added, “Last chance to change your mind!”

“Just be careful, brother,” warned Carver as they gathered by the fourth griffon. Hawke stared at the last binding seal for a moment, then swung the blade.

The last beam of golden light faded, swirling briefly like a cloud of glowing amber smoke before dying away. The companions stared at each other, then as one turned and made their way back towards the seal. Anders was muttering quietly under his breath, shaking his head briefly, one hand to his forehead.

“Anders?” asked Hawke quietly.

“This close, I can hear him even through the lyrium,” he said softly. “He's so close to waking. I can feel him.”

“Are you ready?” asked Hawke, hefting the sword in his hand. Anders nodded.

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

Fenris moved to stand just behind and slightly to one side of the mage; he rested a taloned hand on a feathered pauldron, his grip reassuring and firm through the leather and feathers. Anders knew how much the elf usually abhorred physical contact; the touch meant a great deal to him,

“Let's get this over with,” said Anders tersely.

Hawke nodded, and approached the final seal. He held out Malcolm's sword and closed his left hand about the blade.

Anders wanted to cry out, to stop him; every fibre of his being cried out that this was wrong, to stop Hawke shedding his blood for this magic. But he held himself in check. Hawke's father had performed the blood magic ritual that bound Corypheus; only Hawke's blood could undo it.

Hawke cut his hand with a brief, swift movement of the blade, then held his hand out over the centre of the seal. Glistening drops of crimson blood dropped to splatter against the stone.

For a moment nothing seemed to happen.

And then the blood fizzed and boiled before exploding outwards into a glowing ball of light, the energies rising up into a bright beam of light. Hawke surrendered the sword into the light and it slowly rotated until it hung there in mid-air, point uppermost. Hawke backed away slowly.

And then the light abruptly exploded outwards, hurling both Hawke and the sword from the dais. The companions all took a step backwards as a tall, wizened figure slowly rose into view. It was clad in long dark robes that looked like some arcane and ancient Tevinter design, and the long bony arms that wrapped about the torso of the being ended in long, curved hands with nails like claws. As the being turned slowly to face them, they could see that it seemed almost half-melded with fragments of rock.

Anders gasped when he saw the face. The eyes were not golden, and instead of hair the creature's head seemed to be partially fused to a helmet of rock. But the face... it was the face from his dreams.

And the voice....

“Be this some dream I wake from?” Corypheus said slowly. “Am I in dwarven lands? Why seem their roads so empty?”

Anders felt something drawing him forwards; the singing in his mind seemed impossibly loud, each word spoken by Corypheus ringing and echoing in his mind like a peal of golden bells. A faint, wordless cry escaped his lips, but Corypheus appeared not to hear him. He took a step forward, but Fenris' hand closed tightly upon his shoulder like a vice, the razor-sharp claws of his gauntlets piercing the leather and sinking into his flesh, the pain serving to ground him somewhat.

Corypheus stared down at the companions. “You! Serve you at the temple of Dumat? Bring me hence! I must speak with the first acolyte!”

Anders' eyes widened. “Dumat … was the first Old God to become an Archdemon,” he breathed. “There haven't been temples to him since ancient Tevinter.”

“You look human,” remarked Corypheus, his tone curious as he stared at Anders and Hawke. “Are you not citizens of the Empire? Slaves, then, to the dwarves? Why come you here?” His tone changed, becoming less confused, darker and now taking on a tone of command. “Whoever you be, you owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter. On your knees! All of you!”

“I will not bow the knee to _any_ magister,” growled Fenris, baring his teeth.

“You're a darkspawn,” said Hawke. “Dark...spawn. Ravaging the Deep Roads, spreading the Blight. Sound familiar to you?”

Anders groaned. “That's it, just antagonise the ridiculously powerful... whatever it is, Hawke.”

Corypheus glared at Hawke with a dawning comprehension. “You... are what held me. I smell the blood in you.” He turned away, walking slowly around the dais as he stared upwards, arms raised in supplication. “Dumat!” he called. “Lord! Tell me, what waking dream is this?”

He lowered his hands, seeming to speak to himself. “The light. We sought the golden light. You offered... the power of the Gods themselves.” He turned and walked slowly across the dais. “But it was... black. Corrupt. Darkness...ever since.” He turned and stared at Anders, who found himself drawn forward a step in spite of himself. “How long?” asked Corypheus.

“The Golden City,” said Larius in hushed tones. “The first violation. The magisters who brought the Blight.”

Pulling himself back again, Anders turned and frowned at Larius. “That's ridiculous!” he scoffed. “There were no magical bogeymen who trespassed in the Maker's city. It's just a story!” He shook his head. “It's Chantry propaganda.”

“Well... where do _you_ think darkspawn came from?” asked Hawke, curious.

“Some creation of the Old Gods, no doubt,” replied Anders acerbically.

“Dumat,” said Corypheus quietly, seemingly oblivious to their presence as he gestured to the night sky. “Have you forsaken me? I am your faithful servant....”

Anders stared at him before turning back to Hawke. “The darkspawn aren't just some conveniently explicit lesson on the dangers of magic,” he said.

Hawke shrugged. “Unless Corypheus is for real, everyone who knows what happened is long dead,” he replied.

“You don't think it's a little... 'convenient'?” asked Anders, raising an eyebrow. “What does every sane man and woman in Thedas fear? The Blights. Why not pin those on mages too?”

“Here we go again,” muttered Carver. Fenris remained uncharacteristically silent. Varric nudged him in the hip; he glanced down at the dwarf, frowning in question.

“Cat got your tongue, elf?” he asked quietly.

“I have nothing to say,” replied Fenris calmly. “The mage already knows my feelings on the matter. I see no reason to antagonise him further – particularly when he is already... off-kilter.”

Varric frowned, then stared harder at the mage. Now the elf came to mention it, there did seem to be something not entirely right with the mage. He was restless on his feet, hands twitching; as he watched, a bead of sweat rolled slowly down the side of Anders' face, and there was something desperate in his eyes though his tone was one of exasperation.

“What manner of speech is this?” asked Corypheus curiously. “How long have I slumbered?”

“He tainted the world....” breathed Larius. “He speaks to all who carry the corruption. Darkspawn, Wardens. He brought Janeka here. Brought you....”

“If he's been calling the Wardens to free him, what's his plan?” wondered Hawke. “He seems confused.”

“He slept,” replied Larius. “While the seals held, he could not wake. He knows nothing of time that passed.”

Anders turned and glanced up at Corypheus. Yes, confused. He could see it in the creature's eyes. He had spent centuries asleep; their clothing and speech must have semed very strange and alien to him. He imagined how he might feel under similar circumstances. He took another step closer, halted only by Fenris' hand tightening further upon his shoulder. He stared up at Corypheus, paying no heed to the sharp pain in his flesh or the sensation of rivulets of blood slowly trickling down his arm from Fenris' claws. He only had eyes for Corypheus; he felt a deep sadness for the being. He could not help but feel sympathy for his plight.

 _ **Do not be fooled! He is the greatest danger we have ever faced!**_ He reeled as Justice suddenly leapt upon the offensive, biting his lip as he staggered under the sudden, unexpected onslaught. He could feel the spirit raising his energies and power, ready to strike, and only managed to fight him down with an effort of will.

“We must kill him now, before he comes to,” said Larius firmly.

“You really think he's one of the original magisters?” asked Hawke disbelievingly. “That he's been to the Black City?”

“The city!” cried Corypheus. “It was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be _ours!_ ” Spreading his taloned hands wide, he rose up into the air. “If I cannot leave with you, I shall leave _through_ you!” he cried. “I seek the light!”

Larius abruptly turned and ran; Hawke spared him only a brief glance before turning back to stare at Corypheus, readying his blade.

“I made your sacrifices, Lord,” growled Corypheus as he glared at them and gestured. “Strengthen me now!” Anders gasped as he felt Corypheus pooling magic in his hands, preparing to cast a spell; he'd never felt such a concentration of magic in one place before or wielded by only one person alone.

Fenris' face contorted as he felt his lyrium brands react to the call of the magic; he flickered into incorporeality without thinking, responding to the magic on a purely instinctive level as his lip curled in a snarl.

Corypheus began to float towards Anders, and the mage backed away, a look of terror on his face as he called upon his own magic. He tried to encase the magister in ice, but Corypheus disregarded it, breaking free as though the ice were merely water. He threw a lightning blast and then a fireball at Corypheus with growing desperation as neither spell appeared to have any effect on the magister. Then Corypheus gestured at him casually, almost dismissively, and Anders screamed as he was engulfed in brilliant blue-white fire. He staggered backwards and collapsed to the floor.

“Healer down!” yelled Varric as he moved into position with Bianca and unleashed a rain of bolts at Corypheus.

“Why do they always go for the healer?” groaned Carver as he ran towards Corypheus, brandishing his sword, Hawke at his side. Fenris was already streaking straight for the magister, a terrifying look upon his face.

Anders managed to pull himself up onto his elbow as as Corypheus was distracted by the attack; it was enough to let him channel a little much-needed healing into himself. He rolled over onto his feet, flourishing his staff before ramming it down into the ground and calling down lightning upon Corypheus' head.

“Dumat! Grant me your power!” roared Corypheus, and streams of golden energy raced towards his outstretched hands from the griffon statues upon the balconied alcoves. He glared around at the companions as they spread out and scattered. “You cannot avoid my fires!” he roared as he unleashed roaring blasts of flame from his hands, fanning them out around him.

“What the...” exclaimed Hawke, then dove for the shelter of the nearest balcony. “Move!” he ordered the others. He paused before the griffon statue; a glowing pillar of green fire hovered where the binding shields had glowed before.

“Hey, didn't you destroy these things already?” exclaimed Varric. Hawke shrugged and began to slash at the green light until it abruptly detonated in a shower of bright actinic green sparks.

“Come on!” he yelled as he sprinted for the next one, trying to keep ahead of the fans of flames. He heard yells from behind him.

“Hawke – Shades!” yelled Anders as he desperately tried to fend one off. Rolling his eyes, Hawke sprinted back to join the fray. There were two Shades, and they made quick work of them between the five of them.

“Come on!” commanded Hawke as he made for the next alcove.

“Watch out” cried Anders as Corypheus suddenly appeared between Hawke and the rest of the party.

“Burn, you miserable insects!” sneered the magister as he unleashed a stream of fireballs towards the party; Anders returned fire, alternating between fireballs and bursts of pure spirit energy. Hawke was unsurprised to see Anders' eyes blazing with a fierce blue-white flame; it seemed he had decided to willingly tap into Justice for some extra firepower.

Maybe they had a chance after all.

“The energy – he absorbs it from the statues,” Anders called to Hawke, his light tenor voice underlaid by the deep bass of Justice. Hawke nodded and sprinted for the next statue. Behind him he could hear the sounds of battle continuing.

“You will die before you touch me, worms!” sneered Corypheus as he unleashed more fire directly towards Fenris; Anders pushed the elf out of the way and only barely managed to throw up a shield in time.

“The statues – they're the key, Hawke!” yelled the mage as he alternated between throwing up shields to protect himself and the others from the worst of the flames and casting a stream of healing and revival spells to keep them on their feet. He was glad now that Fenris had forced the lyrium upon him earlier.

Hawke reached the next statue and slashed at the glowing green energies until they detonated and dissipated before turning to engage the two shades that appeared.

“Perhaps a little something more!” cackled Corypheus, rising higher into the air.

“Uh oh. Fun part,” muttered Carver.

“Remind me to have a little word with you later about your definition of 'fun', kiddo!” exclaimed Varric.

“I think-” began Anders, but got no further as he was suddenly struck in the chest by a bolt of lightning. He dropped without a word, all the breath knocked out of his body by the force of the blast.

“Healer down!” roared Varric as Fenris sprinted over to Anders' side. "Again," he added. Anders was blinking dazedly and twitching slightly as Fenris uncorked a healing potion and forced the neck between the disorientated mage's teeth. Anders drank the potion then shuddered before pushing himself up off the floor.

“That was unpleasant,” he remarked. “Let's not try that one again, shall we?”

“Incoming!” warned Carver as Corypheus unleashed another blast of lightning at them.

“Feel the chill!” called Corypheus a the energy in his hands took on a bluer tone. “You cannot outrun it!” He unleashed a blast of icy cold energy at them.

Anders glared at him, twirled his staff with an unnecessary flourish then pointed it at Corypheus as he channeled his magic. “Go suck on a fireball!” he yelled as he blasted it at the magister.

“Look out for the ice!” called Fenris.

“Look out for the bloody rocks, too,” observed Carter as large, sharp stalagmites suddenly began erupting from the floor.

“That's it,” yelled Varric. “If he pulls a bloody dragon out of his ass I'm leaving!”

“A dragon might make a welcome change,” replied Anders as he counteracted Corypheus' fire blast with a wall of ice, followed up by a fireball as the magister switched to an ice blast just before Fenris phased in directly behind the magister and swung his greatsword. Corypheus seemed to sense him somehow and vanished only to reappear on the far side of the chamber.

They were all growing weary. The need to keep up a constant stream of offensive and defensive spells plus heal the others and keep them on their feet was taking its toll upon him. He was running dangerously close to empty right now. He watched Hawke sprinting to the next griffon statue and briefly mouthed a prayer to the Maker that Hawke would make it before Corypheus could wipe them all out. He wasn't sure he could survive another direct hit.

Hawke lashed out with his blade at the last power source, and abruptly the golden streams of power that had been pouring into Corypheus drained away into nothing. The magister howled in alarm as he felt his source of power disappear. He redoubled his efforts, but the companions had the scent of his fear now and closed upon him mercilessly as Hawke threw himself into the fray.

Anders dropped back and sank everything he had into concentrating on healing the others. He could feel he had reached the limit of his reserves of magic; he still had one trick up his sleeve however – one that few spirit healers dared try, let alone seek to master.

He called upon his own bodily strength and energy, channelling it directly into healing. As fast as Corypheus could deal damage, Anders had them back upon their feet again. He knew he woud pay heavily for this after it was all over, but for now all that mattered was taking Corypheus down and keeping his friends alive.

Then Hawke got close enough to deliver a lethal killing blow with his sword, opening Corypheus up from hip to sternum, slashing back down the other way and nearly severing the magister's head.

Just like that, it was all over.


	16. Chapter 16

As Hawke's blade clove through the magister's body, Anders rocked on his feet, near the limit of his exhaustion. He was drained, both of mana and of his own vitality; he felt bone-weary. He stared at Corypheus as the magister sank slowly to his knees....

And suddenly he was unable to look away as the magister's gaze caught and held his own. Anders gasped silently, suddenly unable to breathe. As he stared into Corypheus' eyes, the magister raised his hands; unwillingly, Anders felt his own hands rising, palms uppermost as magic pooled in them. He felt a tugging, a drawing sensation deep within that came from outside his body. Corypheus' eyes bored into him as he took a halting step forward, then another.

 _Come to me, my son._

He tried to speak, to utter a denial, but it felt as though his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth.

 _Come. Do you not feel sorrow for your dying father?_

He tried to shake his head, to hold back, but found himself taking another unwilling step forward. Time seemed to stand still around them both; the others appeared frozen in place – Hawke in the act of holding his blade aloft after having freed it from the magister's body, his arm upraised, poised to strike the _coup de grace_ , Fenris as he turned to look at Anders, a questioning look upon his face. Carver with sword upraised, the light of battle still in his eyes. Varric squinting down Bianca's barrel, a bolt frozen in mid-air as it flew straight and true towards Corypheus' back. And Larius had reappeared, the old Warden standing strangely still, observing Corypheus with eyes that glittered in spite of their milky-white Blighted appearance.

Only Anders seemed capable of movement.

 _Heal me, my child_. As the eyes regarded him, Anders felt an overwhelming sense of grief washing over him. He was dying – Corypheus was dying, and only he had the power to save him. All that knowledge, all that power would be lost – but he could yet save him. He only had to reach out, surrender the last of his life's essence and -

“No!” screamed Anders in denial, suddenly recognising the alien thoughts for what they truly were. “You are not my father – you are a monster!”

 _Then shall you die, wretched child._

He reeled as suddenly he felt a pressure inside his mind; he clutched at his head, crying out, as he felt Corypheus reaching for that place inside his mind where, as with all mages, a portion of the Fade resided; he was reaching for possession.

And found that another already resided there.

 **  
 _You shall NOT HAVE HIM!_  
**

Anders let his hands fall away from his head as Justice took over; willingly, the mage relinquished control to the spirit as blue-white spirit energy danced over his skin and blazed from his eyes. Anders raised his hands as the spirit fire swirled and coalesced about them.

 **  
 _Your time is over. This ends now._  
**

The ball of pure spirit energy flew straight and true to strike Corypheus full in the chest, and as the magister cried out, time seemed to flow again. Larius staggered and put a hand to his head; Varric's bolt thudded squarely home between Corypheus' shoulder blades.

Malcolm's blade described a perfect glittering arc in Hawke's hand as it descended, slicing through the magister's throat and neatly beheading the magister. Slowly Corypheus' headless corpse fell forward as blood spread in a dark pool around the body. Hawke took a step back, away from the near-black fluid.

“It's over,” said Anders quietly. Slowly he lifted his gaze from Corypheus' body and glanced around. “Is everyone alright? Does anyone need healing?”

Carver came forward; sheathing his blade, he pulled off his gauntlet. “I think I caught a bit of one of his ice blasts,” he said quietly. Anders reached for his hand and eyed the frostbitten fingers, then closed his eyes and reached for his dwindling reserves of energy, drawing on his own life force to ease the pain and restore blood flow to the frozen tissues.

“Thank you,” said the Warden quietly. He put out his hand to steady Anders as the mage swayed.

“Enough,” said Fenris, moving to Anders' side and slipping an arm around his waist to support him; Anders gratefully leaned into the elf's firm strength.

“Anders, what do you make of this?” asked Hawke as he straightened from Corypheus' body and held out an amulet.

“That amulet – no-one's used that pattern since the First Blight!” exclaimed Anders as he took it, turning it over in his hands. “I've seen descriptions of this design in books back at the Tower, but I've never seen one before with my own eyes – let alone touched one.” He passed it back to Hawke. “It was unique to a small sect in Tevinter who worshipped the god Dumat.” He turned his gaze back to the body of Corypheus. “He really was an ancient magister.” He shook his head, his voice full of wonder and disbelief. “I always thought the Black City was just a story....”

Hawke shrugged. “Even if it's true, that's no justification for punishing mages over a thousand years later, love,” he said gently.

“Do you think?” replied Anders. “What else might the Chantry know that we don't? What secrets are they keeping from us?” He glanced away, his voice suddenly full of uncertainty. “i-I'll need to study this further,” he stammered.

Hawke nodded, pressing the amulet into Anders' hand once more. “Perhaps you should be the one to take this?” he suggested. Anders stared down at it.

“Perhaps,” he agreed absently, tucking it into his belt.

“Come on, let's get out of here,” suggested Varric. “Corypheus is dead – we've done what we came here for.”

Hawke nodded. Stepping in to Anders' other side, he slung his arm around Anders' waist just above Fenris' arm, and Anders draped his arms over the shoulders of his loves. Slowly they began to make their way back towards the stone bridge that led back across the chasm from the tower to the side of the gorge, Varric and Carver bringing up the rear.

Larius turned away as they approached him, looking out across the gorge.

“You did well, Hawke,” said the old Commander, standing straight, his hands clasped behind his back. “More than the Grey Wardens of old were able to accomplish. I will tell the Warden-Commander of your service here.”

“I'd be careful,” replied Carver. “We don't usually come back from the Calling.”

“I must try,” replied Larius simply. “You've gained an ally today,” he added as he turned to face them.

Hawke frowned; Larius' voice sounded different – more sure, stronger and self-confident. “Why are you talking like that?” he asked, as Anders lifted his head wearily and narrowed his eyes at Larius.

“My head is clear now,” replied Larius. “Without Corypheus' call, I can think again.” He smiled slightly. “I thank you for my freedom.”

“The Wardens won't thank me for the deaths of their own,” remarked Hawke, shaking his head.

“Janeka ignored the Warden-Commander's express orders when she sought to free Corypheus,” replied Larius with a slight negating motion of his hand, dismissing his concern. “They'll be relieved she's gone – though they will grieve for those Wardens she dragged to their deaths through her deceit.” He straightened and inclined his head towards Hawke and the others. “The prison stands no more. My gratitude you have, for my freedom.” He turned away, his footsteps taking him swiftly across the stone bridge; within a short space of time, he had disappeared out of sight.

“Come on,” said Hawke quietly. “Let's go home.”

 

* * *

 

“The attacks... the darkspawn, every bloody part of it – because of what happened years ago,” Carver said slowly, shaking his head. “What he did for mother. For all of us, really.” He sighed as he turned to Hawke. “Blood magic on top of leaving the Amell name. I'm kind of glad Bethany never lived to hear of this. No wonder he kept it all secret. Still, to do all that....” He shook his head. “How would Mother take this? Strange magic... I wish I could talk to her.”

“I know it was hard... how much time he had to spend with Bethany. You never liked that, did you?” said Hawke quietly. “She and he had something together that we could never be a part of.”

“Well, he did start training us too,” Carver pointed out. “But I think we picked up far more from those soldiers who came through.”

Hawke nodded. “Father wasn't a warrior.," Carver continued. "Remember when I beat him? Took the blade clean away.” He grinned ruefully.

Hawke smirked. “He was holding back,” he replied.

“On magic? Sure, but not the blade. After that... well, he knew I could handle the house whilst he was off with Bethany and you were with the guard.” he shrugged. “I suppose I see now why he was so concerned though.”

“You know, I don't think we had it that bad,” replied Hawke quietly. “For a while. A short while.”

“I think I blinked and missed it,” said Carver, his tone a little wistful. “I think... I think it'll be alright, you know? Not real soon, mind you.”

“I suppose it will,” laughed Hawke. “Not real soon. I'm not expecting miracles, after all.”

“How is Anders?” asked Carver, changing the subject. Hawke rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, his eyes flicking up to the stairs.

“Exhausted, but I think he'll be OK. He and I have... a lot to discuss when he wakes though.”

“I can imagine,” replied Carver wryly. “Garrett... go easy on him. It can't have been easy for him, keeping it from you. Believe me, it's not an easy burden to bear.”

Hawke nodded slowly. “I'll bear that in mind,” he promised.

“Take care, brother,” said Carver with a small smile.

“Maker go with you, Carver,” replied Hawke. Carver nodded, then turned and strode from the mansion.

Hawke turned and stared back up the stairs again, then turned away and let his feet carry him over towards the fireplace. He stared into the flickering flames, then closed his eyes.

 _“You know Malcolm wouldn't want you two to fight. He sacrificed so we would have a life free to choose – not always agree. His burden must have been very much like yours is now in many ways.”_ His mother's voice. Leandra.

“That's me – banging my head against the walls of tyranny,” remarked Hawke with a faint smile, thinking of Anders asleep upstairs and how the mage had drawn him into his one-man revolution against the Chantry and the Circles.

 _“You know, your father was the same way. Taming the shadows with questionable wit.”_ He could hear the smile in her voice. _“The best of him is still with you. The best of all of us. It's what makes you try so hard.”_ A sound of movement; a faint swish of skirts, a faint hint of roses; her favourite scent. _“You will always have that. We will always be family.”_ He voice was full of gentle reassurance as she added, _“It will be alright.”_

Hawke opened his eyes and glanced around, but he was alone.

 

* * *

 

Anders stirred as Hawke entered the room, turning his head upon the pillow and opening his eyes. Fenris was curled against him, an arm curling protectively around Anders' waist, the elf's head pillowed against the apostate's shoulder. Fenris was sleeping peacefully.

“You should be asleep,” remarked Hawke as he crossed the room; sinking down upon the edge of the bed, he reached for Anders' hand.

“I'm sorry, love,” Anders said quietly.

“For what?” asked Hawke gently.

“I should have told you,” replied Anders, his amber eyes dark with sadness as he stared up into Hawke's face. “About the Calling.”

Hawke smiled sadly. “Would you ever have told me?” he asked quietly. “Or would you have just slipped away from me silently one night and left me to wonder for the rest of my life what had happened to you?”

“No, never!” cried Anders, his voice cracking with distress. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Then when would you have told me?” asked Hawke, fighting down the urge to grasp the mage by the shoulders, shake him, scream denial, hold him tight and never let him go. Demand to know why. Refuse to let him go.

“I don't know,” replied Anders brokenly.

Then Hawke did take him into his arms, cradling close, and they were both crying. Anders clung to Hawke like one drowning; and Hawke felt he may, indeed, drown in the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Anders tucked his head beneath Hawke's chin, pressing his face against the warrior's chest, and Hawke could feel the mage's hot tears soaking through the rich velvet of his house-robe even as his own tears ran down his face and soaked into Anders' sandy golden hair.

“I dreamed of us growing old together,” murmured Hawke. “I dreamed of years spent with you. A lifetime together. To learn that we may have perhaps a couple of decades....”

He pulled away and held Anders at arm's length, staring him steadily in the eye. “How long?”

“I joined the Wardens seven years ago this Autumn,” replied Anders quietly.

“So, twenty-three years then, give or take a year or two.” Anders nodded. Hawke's face twisted with sorrow, and Anders bit his lip, hanging his head.

“It never mattered to me before,” he said quietly. “An apostate's life isn't exactly a long one. It's always just a matter of time before the templars catch up to you. I escaped the Circle seven times; I'm under no illusions as to what will happen to me when they finally catch me.” He looked up sadly. “It didn't matter though,” he added. “I didn't have anything to live for except freedom itself – and that was a thing worth dying for.” He reached up and gently cupped Hawke's cheek with his hand as a sad smile crossed his face. “And then I met you.”

Hawke lifted his hand from Anders' shoulder to cover the slender hand cradling his cheek as he leaned into the touch.

“Twenty-three years... it's not enough,” he murmured. “There has to be a way....”

Anders shook his head, his eyes darkened to a rich chestnut brown by pain. “No, love,” he said gently. “Eventually my Calling will come... and then I will become as Larius is. If I'm lucky, I'll die fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads. But I can't escape the fate which lies before me.” His gaze dropped to the counterpane. “Except by death.”

The elf stirred beside Anders, slowly sitting up and wrapping his arms around the slender mage. “It cannot have been an easy burden,” rumbled the elf soothingly, pressing his head against Anders' shoulder. “It must be a fearful thing, to know the hour and manner of one's death.”

“Actually, it's remarkably liberating,” said Anders quietly, his head still lowered. “Or was, before I fell in love. I hadn't counted on that part.” He suddenly smiled, a wry, lopsided grin. “I used to be so loose and easy once; as casual as Isabela – you name it, I'd probably done it, men and women both. It didn't mean a thing because it was only skin-deep.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were shining softly. “And then you two got under my skin, and suddenly it's far more real, more terrifying – because suddenly there's something greater than myself to lose.” He let his hand fall from Hawke's cheek and clenched his fists.

“It's not fair,” he breathed. “It's not enough. I want more – I want to _live._ And I never knew it until I knew you both.”

“Larius... at the end, he seemed lucid – more how I imagine he would have been before he answered his Calling,” said Hawke slowly. “You have amazing willpower, Anders – you withstood both Justice and Corypheus. If anyone can resist the taint, it's you.”

“It may not be enough,” replied Anders sombrely.

“We will be with you,” vowed Hawke, reaching out and squeezing Anders' shoulders reassuringly. Anders nodded, not looking up.

“So,” mused Fenris quietly. “What other secrets have you been keeping from us?”

Anders sat still, his face hidden by his hair.

“Nothing,” he lied.

 

 _~ Fin ~_


End file.
